UC-NRLF 


SB    275    T54 


Laeramle  Donation 


168 


*     *    §ta^e  Stories,    *     * 
©Anecdotes  of  tfye 


Dialogues  and 


/T\iltoi?  Cobles' 


AUTHOR   OF  THE    PLAYS    OF  I       .'. 


.     .  (tko\te  and 

.     .   (</Phe  Phoenix," 

<(<^  Man  Qf  tt?e  Peo 


§ire  to 


BY  MILTON  NOBLES, 


6      *Xi 


MILWAUKEE  : 

BIVERSIDE  PRINTING  CO., 

PRINTERS  AND  PUBLISHERS. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


I  am  just  in  receipt  of  a  letter  from  my  pub- 
lisher, calling  attention  to  the  fact  that  I  had 
failed  to  write  a  preface.  It  is  singular  that  I 
should  have  overlooked  this  important  prefix, 
since  the  preface  affords  an  author  his  best  op- 
portunity to  apologize  for  his  temerity 
and  offer  the  extenuating  circumstances, 
should  any  exist.  Some  months  ago,  when 
I  conceived  the  idea  of  perpeti^ating  this 
volume,  I  met  on  Fulton  street,  Brook- 
lyn, an  old  acquaintance,  an  ex-actor,  man- 
ager and  playwright,  now  a  politician  and 
local  statesman.  I  mentioned  to  him,  inci- 
dentally, that  I  thought  of  getting  out  a  book. 
"What  for?"  be  asked,  promptly.  The  in- 
cisive bluntness  of  the  question  dazed  me  for  a 
moment.  After  pulling  myself  together  care- 
fully I  replied,  apologetically :  "  For  fifty 
cents  in  paper  covers,  a  dollar  in  cloth."  He 

M58155 


looked  at  me  thoughtfully  for  a  time,  and  re- 
plied :  "  That's  different,  of  course."  As  my 
reply  seemed,  in  a  measure,  to  satisfy  my  cyn- 
ical friend,  I  have  determined  to  let  it  go  to 
the  public  as  my  only  justification  for  what 
follows.  THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


FACE. 

The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian,  six  papers,      ...  7 

Yorick's  Skull, 69 

Hard  Times, 78 

Penalty  Bloggs, 85 

The  Isaacs-Crummels'  Boom, 94 

"George," 112 

Stage  Aspirants, 125 

A  Chat  with  the  Brakeman, 133 

"Sary," 137 

The  Mission  of  the  Theatre 143 

And  the  Villain  Still  Pursued  Her,     ....  146 

Stage  Anecdotes, 151 

Wrecked  Geniuses, 164 

A  Running  Conversation, 180 

Flotsam  and  Jetsam, 195 


THE  PALMY  DAY  TRAGEDIAN. 


KIRST  PAPER. 


HE  DISCOURSES  UPON  THE  DECADENCE  OF  HIS  ART, 
AND  RECALLS  SOME  INCIDENTS  AMUSING  AND 
OTHERWISE  — A  REMINISCENCE  OF  FORREST  IN 
1S57— HE  TALKS  ABOUT  THE  FUND  MEETING. 


CTORS !  "  sneered  the  palmy  day  trage- 
dian, as  he  posed  gracefully  against 
his  favorite  awning  post  and  passed 
his  thin  fingers  through  his  suspiciously  black 


8  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

curls.  "Actors!  There  are  no  actors  now. 
Count  them  upon  your  fingers.  Where  are  they  ? 
Forrest,  Eddy,  Davenport,  Jennings,  Whalley, 
Adams,  Chanfrau,  Hamblin,  Scott,  Goodali — 
gone,  all  gone,"  and  for  a  moment  his  thin  face 
grew  sad  and  his  sunken  eyes  moistened,  as  he 
gazed  with  a  far-away  look  over  the  heads  of 
his  listeners;  then,  with  a  mournful  pathos,  he 
added,  "Why,  there  are  scarcely  a  dozen  of  us 
left." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  continued,  in  answer  to  a 
query,  "  I  tended  the  Fund  meeting,  I  saw 
the  thousand  people  gathered  there,  but  not  a 
thousand  f  actors; "  no,  sir,  heaven  forbid!  I 
saw  scores  of  dudes  sucking  their  massive  canes, 
whose  silver  knobs  were  as  empty  as  their  own. 
Hundreds  of  frivolous  butterflies,  in  gaudy 
tints,  who  came  from  the  Lord  knows  where, 
and  are  drifting  the  Lord  knows  whither.  Oh, 
yes,  I  saw  them  all,  and  when  Palmer  men- 
tioned the  name  of  my  old  friend,  Ned,  '  the 
noblest  Roman  of  them  all/  I  saw  these  <  actors ' 
look  inquiringly  at  each  other.  And  one  of 
these  '  actors/  a  fellow  with  a  cane  bigger  than 
himself,  with  a  glass  in  his  eye,  and  a  mous- 
tache that  reminded  one  of  a  caterpillar — this 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  9 

1  actor '  turned  and  asked  me  who  Forrest  was. 
Yes,  sir,  he  actually  asked  me  who  Edwin  For- 
rest was !  Actors !  actors ! !  Ye  gods,  can  such 
things  be,  and  overcome  us  like  a  summer's 
cloud  without  our  special  wonder  ?  " 

As  no  one  evinced  a  disposition  to  answer 
this  conundrum,  the  tragedian  resumed:  "I 
was  proud  to  see  my  old  friends  Dion  Bouci- 
cault  and  Harry  Watkins  on  the  stage,  among 
the  favored  few.  It  shows  that  the  real  actor, 
though  in  the  minority,  still  gets  there  all  the 
same.  I  also  noted  other  old  "  companions  of 
the  isle"  —  Billy  Florence,  Tom  Keene  and 
evergreen  old  Uncle  Ben.  But  I  missed  Bob 
Johnson  and  Jack  Studley.  But,  Aunt  Louisa 
was  there  ;  I  have  observed  that  Louisa  is  gen- 
erally there." 

"  Did  you  hear  IngersolPs  speech  ?  "  asked  a 
tall  man  with  an  asthmatic  voice  and  checkered 
pantaloons. 

"  Yes,  sir,  every  word  of  it.  '  A  fellow  of  in- 
finite jest '  is  my  friend  Bob ;  also  of  most  excel- 
lent fancy.  His  tribute  to  genius  as  embodied 
in  art,  literature  and  the  drama  was  worthy  of 
the  man,  and  that  is  saying  much.  His  tribute 
to  Shakespeare,  'the  intellectual  ocean  into 


10  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

which  pour  all  of  the  rivers  of  thought/  was  a 
figure  of  speech  worthy  the  occasion  and  the 
theme.  His  tribute  to  the  play-house  and 
players  of  our  own  generation  was  happy,  logi- 
cal and  full  of  solid  ( chunks  of  wisdom/  And 
right  there  is  where  he  should  have  stopped^ 
There  were  many  good  Christian  men  and 
women  there,  and  the  occasion  was  sacred  in  its 
significance ;  and  Ingersoll,  who  was  fully  equal 
to  the  occasion  on  its  merits,  should  have  left 
his  hobby  at  home." 

A  small,  fat  man,  with  a  large  nose  and  a 
Seymore  coat,  inquired  whether  Forrest  had 
been  a  church  member. 

"Not  exactly  a  church  member,  perhaps," 
replied  the  tragedian,  severely,  "  but  still  a  be- 
liever and  a  God-fearing  man." 

"  He  must  have  been  a  great  actor,"  said  the 
Lyceum-School  man,  who  was  holding  up  the 
other  awning-post,  and  looking  with  admiration 
and  envy  at  the  tragedian. 

" He  was  a  man"  said  the  noble  son  of  Thes- 
pis,  lifting  his  hat  reverently,  "  take  him  for  all 
in  all  I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again." 

"Did  you  ever  act  with  him?"  asked  the 
Lyceum  man. 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  11 

"Did  I  ever  play  with  Ned  Forrest!  "  hissed 
the  tragedian.  Then  he  surveyed  his  little 
group  of  listeners  with  a  glance  of  comprehen- 
sive contempt,  "  When  this  poor  frame  shall  be 
laid  in  the  earth ;  when  in  after  years  the  chil- 
dren of  Thespis  shall  make  their  annual  visit 
to  the  Actors'  plot,  to  strew  with  flowers  the 
graves  of  the  humble  and  unwritten  members 
of  their  craft,  let  them  read  upon  the  slab  that 
covers  me,  only  this:  'He  supported  Forrest/  " 
Jhen  he  brushed  a  fly  off  his  bald  spot,  and 
carefully  replaced  his  last  year's  silk  hat.  The 
oppressive  silence  following  this  burst  of  feeling 
was  finally  broken  by  the  fat  man,  who  asked 
the  tragedian  to  tell  them  something  about 
Forrest. 

"  0  memory,"  he  mused,  "  thou  art  a  volume 
rich  in  sacred  lore,  and  while  I  approve  not 
of  casting  pearls  before  swine,  yet  will  I  a  tale 
unfold,  that  now  comes  to  me  wafted  down  the 
corridors  of  years.  Way  back  in  '57 — the  year 
known  in  our  history  as  'hard  times' — I  was  in 
Cleveland.  John  Ellsler  and  Felix  A.  Vincent 
were  the  managers.  Both  are  still  among  the 
living.  Those  were  hard  times,  indeed,  for  the 
poor  player.  The  luxury  of  a  salary  was  un- 


12  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

known  The  managers  continued  to  give 
weekly  about  four  or  five  dollars  to  each  mem- 
ber of  the  company.  Just  enough  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  the  door.  There  were  some  good 
actors  there,  too;  real  actors.  There  were  C. 
E  Graham,  T.  B.  Douglass,  L.  J.  Vincent,  Ada 
Clifton,  GusFenno,  Ed.  L.  Mortimer  and  others. 
"  But  I  started  to  say  something  about  For- 
rest. Well,  in  the  company  was  a  poor  fellow 
named  Graham  He  was  second  comedian. 
Most  of  us  were  single  young  fellows,  but  Gra- 
ham had  an  invalid  wife,  and  three  wee  little 
children.  Yet  for  those  five  mouths  there  was 
but  the  one  share  on  pay-day,  and  doctors  and 
medicine  had  to  be  paid  for ;  there  was  no  fund 
and  no  free  doctor  then.  We  would  all  chip  in 
five  or  ten  cents  a  week  from  our  miserable 
pittances  to  swell  Graham's  little  store.  Poor 
fellow,  it  was  sad  to  see  him  at  night  trying  to 
be  funny,  his  pale,  hollow  cheeks  daubed  with 
paint,  his  sunken  eyes  red  and  swollen  with 
nightly  vigils  over  a  dying  wife  and  hungry 
little  ones.  But  he  never  complained.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  New  England  clergyman.  Re- 
turning from  college,  he  had  secretly  married 
his  young  sister's  governess,  and  was  driven 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  13 

from  his  home.     He  loved  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren devotedly,  and  was  actually  starving  him-  * 
self  to  death  to  keep  them  from  hunger. 

"  Forrest  was  to  open  in  Metamora.  It  was 
in  the  spring,  and  the  weather  was  getting 
warm.  During  the  long,  tiresome  rehearsal  I 
noticed  that  Graham  seemed  unusually  weak, 
and  finally  Forrest,  who  thought  he  was  stupid, 
spoke  brusquely  to  him  and  pushed  him  aside, 
and  a  moment  later  the  poor  fellow  fell  in  a 
dead  faint.  Every  one  gathered  about  him, 
doing  nothing,  as  usual  under  such  circum- 
stances. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Forrest,  coming 
over  to  the  entrance,  and  comprehending  the 
situation,  he  picked  the  poor  emaciated  form  in 
his  brawny  arms  and  carried  him  to  the  back 
door.  '  Get  some  ice  ! '  roared  the  great  actor. 
Just  then  an  ice-wagon  was  passing  in  the  alley. 
I  snatched  from  the  rear  of  the  wagon  a  big 
square  block  of  ice,  and  two  of  us  rolled  it  to 
the  door.  '  Break  it  up ! '  shouted  Metamora. 
A.  dozen  started  for  an  axe,  but  in  the  confusion 
nothing  was  forthcoming.  Forrest  handed  the 
fainting  Graham  over  to  one  of  the  ladies,  and 
seized  the  mammoth  block  of  ice.  Talk  about 


14  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

Atlas  supporting  the  globe,  or  Jove  hurling  the 
bolts !  Bah !  They  are  tame  compared  to  that 
picture  of  Edwin  Forrest  lifting  the  massive 
block  of  ice  above  his  majestic  head  and  dash- 
ing it  into  a  thousand  pieces  on  the  stone  sill  at 
his  feet.  Then  he  took  the  poor  frail  figure  in 
his  mighty  arms,  and  with  his  great  dark  hand 
stroked  the  pale  temples  and  ashen  cheeks. 
And  poor  Graham!  When  he  recovered  and 
saw  the  face  of  the  tragedian  bending  over  him, 
the  look  of  comic  terror  that  overspread  his 
countenance  completely  upset  us  all.  The  poor 
boy  was  nearly  frightened  into  another  swoon 
and  tried  to  blubber  out  some  apology.  We  all 
had  to  laugh  in  spite  of  his  pale  and  terror- 
stricken  face,  and  Forrest  patted  him  on  the 
head,  and  joined  in  the  laughter.  Then,  call- 
ing the  stage  manager,  he  asked  him  a  few 
questions,  ordered  a  carriage  and  sent  the  poor 
boy  home.  He  gave  orders  that  he  should  be 
left  out  of  the  bills  and  excused  from  rehearsals 
for  the  entire  week. 

"  That  boy  is  sick,"  growled  Forrest.  "  Give 
him  a  week's  rest."  On  the  following  Monday 
morning  Graham  reported  for  duty,  a  changed 
man.  There  was  color  in  his  cheek,  light  in 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  15 

his  eye  and  vigor  in  his  step.  But  tears  were 
in  his  eyes,  too.  Yes,  sir,  tears,  but  they  were 
tears  of  joy  and  thankfulness.  And  then  he 
told  us  how  the  great  Forrest  had  visited  his 
poor  garret,  talked  pleasantly  to  his  wife,  and 
kissed  his  children.  How  each  day  of  the 
week  had  brought  them  a  basket  laden  with 
substantial  food,  and  how  on  Saturday  night 
there  came  a  sealed  envelope  containing  one 
hundred  dollars,  with  no  word  of  explanation. 
Yes,  gentlemen,  one  hundred  dollars,  and  this 
is  fact,  not  fiction." 

"Poor  Graham!  He  was  a  noble  fellow," 
mused  the  tragedian  after  a  pause.  "  At  the 
breaking  out  of  the  war  he  enlisted  as  a  private 
soldier,  rose  to  the  rank  of  major  of  cavalry, 
was  twice  breveted  for  heroic  conduct  and 
died  a  hero's  death  leading  a  forlorn  hope  in 
the  Wilderness." 

"  Move  on !  "  shouted  the  unappreciative  cop, 
"  Move  on !  " 

The  tragedian  squandered  one  lofty,  wither- 
ing glance  upon  him,  and  moved  on.  The  tall 
man  with  the  asthma  folded  his  duster  about 
him  and  wandered  to  his  favorite  bench  in 
Union  Square  park.  The  fat  man  with  the 


16  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

Seymour  coat  and  large  nose  dropped  into  the 
nearest  beer  saloon,  and  the  Lyceum  School 
actor  went  home  to  study  Hamlet. 


SKCOND  F>AF>ER. 


"When  Roscius  was  an  actor  in  Rome," 
mused  the  tragedian. 

"Then  came  each  actor  on  his  ass,"  sug- 
gested the  fat  comedian,  with  a  broad,  all  around 
smile,  which  threatened  to  become  a  full-blown 
laugh,  until  it  was  untimely  nipped  by  a  with- 
ering glance  from  the  tragedian,  when  it  spread 
out  over  his  fat  face  and  disappeared  ignomini- 
ously  behind  his  ample  ears.  The  silence  which 
intervened  was  embarrassing,  particularly  for 
the  fat  man,  who  realized  that  he  had  gone  too 
far. 

The  man  writh  asthma  at  last  made  bold: 
"  You  have  not  been  in  your  accustomed  haunts 
for  some  days,"  he  said  apologetically. 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  17 

"  No ;  since  our  last  meeting  I  have  been  en 
four." 

"Did  you  visit  Chicago?"  asked  the  Lyceum 
School  actor. 

"No,  we  visited  Red  Bank,  Paterson  and 
Elizabeth.  We  were  to  have  invaded  Trenton 
and  Newark,  but  circumstances  over  which  we 
had  no  control,  caused  the  abandonment  of 
our  original  plans.  However,  Elizabeth  is  a 
good  closing  point.  Newark  would  have  been 
better  by  the  matter  of  an  hour's  jaunt;  but 
that's  not  much." 

"Did  you  play  your  favorite  character  of 
Othello?"  This  by  the  Lyceum  man. 

"  No ;  I  did  enact  one  Uncle  Tom,  and  I  was 
killed  before  we  reached  the  capital,  and  a  brute 
killed  me  too.  Shades  of  Brutus ;  that  I  should 
live  to  become  a  turkey  actor,  aye,  and  an 
Uncle  Tom  turkey  actor." 

It  was  subsequently  learned  that  the  term 
"  turkey  actor  "  is  applied  to  those  artists  who, 
owing  to  circumstances  beyond  their  control, 
are  compelled  to  linger  the  greater  portion  of 
the  year  in  and  about  the  metropolis,  devoting 
their  talents  to  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas 
"  snaps." 


18  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

"  Did  the  ghost  walk  at  all  ?"  asked  the  man 
with  the  asthma. 

"  Walk,  walk !  he  did  not  even  wake  up.  But 
that  we  could  have  borne.  The  humiliation 
was  not  that  we  closed;  it  was  the  manner  of 
the  closing ;  not  the  effect  but  the  cause." 

"  Drunken  agent,  I  suppose,"  said  the  man 
with  the  Seymore  coat. 

"  No,  sir,  it  was  the  usual  thing — a  kicker." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  Lyceum  school  actor, 
"  it  was  professional  jealousy."  The  withering 
glance  with  which  the  tragedian  crushed  the 
last  speaker,  will  be  understood  in  the  light  of 
what  follows : 

"  Was  it  Eva's  mother  or  Aunt  Ophelia  who 
kicked,"  asked  the  fat  man. 

"  Neither,  sir,  it  was  the  star.  In  other  words 
the  jackass;  yes,  sir,  the  jackass.  To  this  com- 
plexion have  we  come  at  last ;  we  support  jack- 
asses on  the  New  Jersey  circuit."  For  a  time 
the  tragedian  seemed  wrapped  in  his  indigna- 
tion, his  mind  no  doubt  reverting  to  the  time 
when  he  had  supported  his  old  friend  Forrest. 
During  this  pause  the  fat  man  intimated  to  the 
Lyceum  School  actor  that  he  had  lost  the  op- 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  19 

portunity  of  a  life  time  in  not  having  joined 
that  company  as  understudy, 

"Yes,  sir,  a  jackass!"  suddenly  roared  the 
tragedian  in  a  tone  that  startled  the  asthma 
man,  and  queered  the  fat  comedian's  laugh. 
"  It  was  a  case  of  pool;  a  regular  combine.  The 
comedian  had  saved  a  season's  salary  from  an 
engagement  in  one  of  John  Stevens'  companies, 
and  bought  a  jackass.  His  racket  was  a  joint 
engagement  for  the  two  comedy  rolls,  Marks 
and  the  Donkey.  Thus,  you  see,  the  arch  con- 
spirator obtained  the  bulge,  as  it  were.  A  sud- 
den collapse  had  no  terrors  for  him.  Even 
should  he  fail  to  realize  on  his  donkey,  he  could 
still  ride  home.  However,  we  will  now  reor- 
ganize." 

The  Lyceum  School  man  brightened  up  at 
once.  "  Do  you  think  there  will  be  an  opening 
for  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Undoubtedly,  we  now  require  just  one  more 
man.  A  responsible  person  to  act  as  treasurer 
and  play  George  Shelby  in  the  last  act." 

An  oppressive  silence  intervened,  only  broken 
by  the  breathing  of  the  man  with  asthma. 
"He  will  be  required  to  deposit — "  posterity 
will  never  know  the  concluding  words  of  this 


20  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

sentence,  for  the  reason  that  they  were  not 
spoken.  The  fat  comedian  had  rolled  over  a 
beer  barrel  into  the  gutter,  and  by  the  time  the 
man  with  the  duster  had  fished  him  out,  the 
Lyceum  School  actor  had  disappeared. 

"I  see  that  George  Boniface's  new  play  is 
quite  a  go,"  said  the  tall  man,  wiping  a  bit  of 
mud  from  his  eye  with  the  corner  of  his  duster. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  tragedian,  "  and  I'm 
glad  of  it  for  George's  sake,  and  Foster's  too. 
They  are  a  couple  of  the  back  numbers  who 
are  worth  reading.  I  wonder  if  George  remem- 
bers when  he  and  I  were  boot-jacks  at  the  Old 
Bowery  in  1859  ?  Ah !  they  were  a  merry  band, 
and  a  bright  one,  too.  Let  me  see  how  many 
of  them  I  can  recall,  living  and  dead."  The 
old  actor  covered  his  pale  face  for  a  moment 
with  his  thin,  white  hands,  and  when  he  re- 
moved them  something  like  a  tear  glistened  in 
either  eye :  "George  Wood  and  Ned  Tilton 
were  the  managers.  Dead,  both  dead.  Will 
Tayton,  Sydney  Wilkins,  Harry  Jordan,  W.  H. 
Ward,  Mrs.  Leighton,  Mrs.  Burroughs,  Hattie 
Arnold — all  dead,  I  believe.  And  of  the  living 
I  recall  Andy  Glassford,  Sam  Ryan,  Charles 
Foster,  Bob  Johnson,  Kate  Denin,  Mrs.  Jordan 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  21 

and  Jim  Collier.  Those  who  have  seen  Jim 
act  in  late  years  tell  me  that  he  is  a  worse  actor 
now  than  he  was  in  1859.  This  I  will  never 
believe.  To  play  was  work  in  those  days,  but 
we  had  lots  of  fun  nevertheless.  I  remember 
one  Monday  night  when  a  new  drama  was  to  be 
produced.  Two  rehearsals  were  all  we  ever 
expected  then,  three  at  most.  In  the  new  play 
Bob  Johnson  was  to  be  the  hero  and  Bill  Ward 
the  villain.  Ward's  part  was  a  terror — about 
forty-five  lengths.  Ward  wras  a  fine  actor,  but 
he  was  also  very  fond  of  fishing,  and  Sundays, 
which  in  stock  times  was  the  actor's  study  day, 
Ward  usually  devoted  to  his  favorite  sport.  As 
a  consequence  he  was  generally  fluky  on  Mon- 
day nights.  On  this  particular  Monday  night 
he  was  particularly  shaky.  He  had  not  only 
fished  all  day  Sunday,  but  got  becalmed,  and 
barely  reached  the  city  Monday  morning  in 
time  for  rehearsal.  Ward  was  winging  the  long 
heavy  villain ;  didn't  know  a  line,  but  he  was 
a  great  winger.  During  the  second  act  he  had 
to  rush  on  to  the  hero,  and  drawing  from  his 
bosom  a  large  document,  wave  it  triumphantly 
in  the  air,  and  exclaim :  '  Behold,  fond  dotard, 
in  this  little  parchment  I  hole1  thy  fate ;  here, 


22  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

duly  attested,  are  written  proofs  of  thy  friend's 
baseness  and  the  maiden's  perfidy/  Ward 
rushed  on  and  got  on  as  far  as  '  fond  dotard/ 
when  he  rammed  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and 
a  ghostly  pallor  overspread  his  face. 

"  He  had  forgotten  his  prop.  There  was  no 
document.  The  pause  was  but  for  an  instant. 
Ward  jammed  his  hand  into  the  other  side  of 
his  tunic  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction ;  his  part 
was  there  where  he  had  thrust  it  upon  en- 
tering. Drawing  forth  the  manuscript  tri- 
umphantly, he  waived  it  in  the  air  and  finished 
the  speech.  But  he  had  forgotten  the  business 
of  the  hero.  Johnson  seized  the  part  and  com- 
menced tearing  it  to  pieces.  "  Here,  here !  hold 

on  Bob,  don't,  d n  it !     That's  my  part,  and 

I  don't  know  it,"  whispered  Ward.  "  Served 
you  right !  Go  fishing  on  Sunday,  will  ye  ?  " 
hissed  Johnson,  and  dashing  the  fragments 
upon  the  floor,  he  stamped  upon  them,  exclaim- 
ing :  "Perish  forever  the  vile  record."  It  was 
the  middle  of  a  scene,  and  Bob  knew  that  some- 
thing must  be  done  to  save  the  act.  So,  seiz- 
ing Ward  by  the  throat,  he  dragged  him  off 
HIE,  a  la  Damon  and  Lucullus,  exclaiming, 
"  And  as  I  stamp  the  falsehood  from  this  per- 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  23 

jured  evidence,  so  will  I  wring  the  base  libel 
from  thy  craven  throat/  The  curtain  came 
down,  and  there  was  a  double  call.  Ward  and 
Johnson  took  the  call  from  opposite  sides, 
marched  to  the  centre,  and  shook  hands  hero- 
ically. The  piece  had  been  a  dead  frost  up  to 
that  time,  but  Ward's  fishing  and  Johnson's 
ready  wit  made  a  situation  which  saved  it  from 
inevitable  failure.  Ward  had  to  wing  from 
the  prompt  stand  for  the  rest  of  the  play,  but 
he  got  there." 

During  the  foregoing  recital  the  Lyceum 
School  man  had  quietly  slipped  back  to  his 
accustomed  post.  "  That  reminds  me  of  an  in- 
cident," said  the  tall  man  with  asthma,  "that 
occurred  at  the  old  Metropolitan  in  Sacramento, 
in  '69.  I  was  playing  Roaring  Ralph  Stackpole 
with  Joe  Proctor." 

"  What,  with  that  voice  ! "  interrupted  the 
fat  man.  "  No  wonder  Sacramento  is  a  bad 
show  town." 

The  comedian  got  his  laugh,  and  the  chil- 
dren of  genius  dropped  into  the  basement  and 
quaffed  the  foaming  nectar.  And  the  Lyceum 
School  man,  as  usual,  paid  the  score. 


24  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 


THIRD 


"  All  the  world's  a  stage,  and  all  the  men  and 
women  merely  players/'  mused  the  tragedian, 
"  and  I  have  in  my  time  played  many  parts." 

"Did  you  reorganize  the  Uncle  Tom  com- 
pany?" asked  the  man  with  asthma. 

"  We  did  not  reorganize,"  answered  the  tra- 
gedian, with  dignity.  "  The  Rondout  manager 
declined  to  advance  fares  when  he  learned  that 
we  had  no  jackass.  However,  their  loss  was 
my  temporary  gain.  As  soon  as  it  was  known 
that  our  tour  would  not  be  resumed,  a  brisk 
rivalry  began  among  metropolitan  managers 
for  my  services.  While  my  last  engagement 
has  not  added  materially  to  my  reputation  as  a 
legitimate  attraction,  I  am  a  small  gainer  in  the 
matter  of  financial  standing  and  a  large  gainer 
in  the  matter  of  experience." 

"  Experience !  "  said  the  Lyceum  man,  "Why, 
I  fancied  there  was  no  walk  of  the  drama  which 
you  had  not  traversed." 

"  Young  man,"  replied  the  tragedian,  "  I  am 
now  five-and-thirty  years  an  actor,  but  I  ain 


The  Palmg  Day  Tragedian.  25 

still  a  student.  The  true  artist  is  never  satis- 
fied with  himself,  and  each  night  of  his  profes- 
sional life  he  learns  something,  as  often  from  a 
good  as  from  a  bad  actor ;  the  one  shows  him 
something  to  emulate,  the  other  something  to 
avoid.  When  I  was  two  years  an  actor  I  knew 
it  all;  in  five  years  I  had  reached  the  stage 
where  I  was  willing  to  learn  something ;  in  ten 
years  my  head  had  resumed  its  normal  propor- 
tions, and  since  that  time  I  have  been  learning 
how  to  act.  It  took  me  five  years  to  learn  how 
to  properly  make  an  entrance  and  an  exit,  and 
I  have  seen  others  who  had  not  learned  it  in 
ten." 

"Speaking  of  entrances  and  exits,"  said  the 
man  with  the  asthma  and  linen  duster,  "  re- 
minds me  of  an  incident  that  occurred  at  the 
American  theatre  in  San  Francisco  in  1855. 
We  had  a  grand  production  of  Mazeppa.  Lon 
Phelps  did  Mazeppa.  Lon  was  afraid  of  horses, 
and  refused  to  make  the  run,  so  they  had  to 
resort  to  a  double.  J.  J.  McClosky  was  made 
up  for  the  double,  and  masked  in  by  the  crowd 
of  peasants  and  retainers,  was  strapped  to  the 
fiery  untamed,  and  dashed  up  the  mountains. 
Each  night  there  was  a  big  call,  and  Phelps, 


26  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

carefully  made  up  in  fleshings,  would  march 
triumphantly  in  front  of  the  curtain,  bowing 
and  smiling  his  thanks  for  the  call.  On  the 
fifth  night  of  the  play  the  second  run  gave 
way  and  McClosky  and  the  horse  disappeared 
together,  amid  cracking  boards  and  timbers. 
Of  course,  there  was  great  excitement,  and  the 
audience  began  calling  to  learn  whether  Ma- 
zeppa  was  seriously  hurt.  After  a  short  wait, 
Phelps  swelled  out  in  front  of  the  curtain,  with 
a  little  property-blood  on  his  face  and  hands, 
and  limping  desperately,  but  smiling  a  sad, 
sweet,  painful  smile,  as  thougli  saying,  'Its 
nothing,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  a  mere  scratch, 
nothing  more,  I  assure  you.7  Meantime  the 
carpenters  and  supers  were  dragging  poor  Mc- 
Closky out  from  under  the  mass  of  broken 
boards,  horse,  etc.  Mac  was  badly  shaken  up, 
but  not  seriously  hurt.  The  audience  in  front 
was  wildly  applauding  Phelps'  mock  heroics. 
The  stage  manager,  who  in  the  excitement  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  double,  pulled  McClosky 
down  to  the  first  entrance  shouting,  '  Go  out ; 
go  out  and  let  'em  see  that  you  ain't  hurt.' 
Mac,  half  dazed  with  pain  and  fright,  and  not 
realizing  what  he  was  doing,  stepped  in  front 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  27 

of  the  curtain,  with  real  blood  on  his  face,  and 
nursing  a  genuine  lame  leg.  Just  as  he  came 
on  Phelps  started  to  limp  off,  and  they  met  face 
to  face  in  the  centre  of  the  stage.  The  expres- 
sions on  the  faces  of  Phelps  and  McClosky,  as 
the  situation  suddenly  dawned  on  them,  baffles 
description.  Had  they  been  costumed  as  the 
Dromios  that  expression  would  have  immortal- 
ized them.  For  the  space  of  about  ten  seconds 
there  was  a  deathly  stillness  in  the  audience, 
then,  as  the  truth  of  the  double  struck  them, 
there  went  up  a  yell  that  nearly  raised  thereof. 
The  two  Mazeppas  forgot  their  limps  and  rushed 
behind  the  curtain  at  opposite  sides.  At  each 
subsequent  appearance,  during  the  evening, 
Phelps  was  greeted  with  yells  of  laughter,  and 
after  the  next  night  the  play  was  taken  off." 

"  Not  bad,  not  bad/7  said  the  tragedian,  pat- 
ronizingly. "  All  of  which  goes  to  show  the 
degenerate  tendencies  of  the  times  in  matters 
pertaining  to  our  art.  In  1855  we  supported 
horses,  a  few  years  later  the  jackass  came  to 
the  front,  and  now  we  have  got  down  to  dogs." 

"Dogs?"  asked  the  fat  comedian.  "How is 
that?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  repeat  it,  dogs  I     I  thought  whera 


28  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

I  played  Uncle  Tom,  with  the  jackass  starred, 
that  I  had  fathomed  the  depth  of  professional 
degradation.  Vain  delusion !  The  dog  star  is 
now  in  the  ascendant.  Since  our  last  meeting 
I  have  been  supporting  the  celebrated  dramatic 
dogs,  ' Terror'  and  'Leviathan/  assisted  by  the 
talented  young  actors  and  authors,  the  Barber 
Brothers.  My  last  engagement  was  one  of  those 
in  which  I  learned  much — that  should  be 
avoided.  I  did  enact  the  heavy  villain.  In 
each  act  I  desperately  assaulted  the  suffering 
heroine,  to  be  in  turn  torn  to  pieces  by  the  ca- 
nine heroes.  In  each  act  they  were  to  feast 
upon  a  different  portion  of  my  anatomy,  and 
for  each  occasion  I  had  a  sole  leather  pad  cov- 
ered with  red  flannel,  suitably  adjusted  to  re- 
ceive the  assault.  In  the  first  act  when  I  said 
to  the  maiden,  '  Fair  maiden,  resistance  is  use- 
less. You  must,  you  shall  be  mine/  the  star 
threw  on  a  dog  from  R.  i.  E.  '  Terror '  wagged 
his  tail  good  naturedly  and  looked  up  into  my 
face  in  a  friendly  sort  of  way ;  then  he  sat  down 
and  began  to  scratch  himself  behind  the  ear 
with  his  left  foot.  '  Sick  him,  Terror/  shouted 
the  dog  star  from  the  wing.  '  Go  on,  sick  'im, 
you , !  Why 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  29 

the  h —  ?J  Meantime  the 

maiden  was  screaming  for  help,  and  I  was  re- 
peating speeches  from  all  of  the  maiden  pur- 
suers that  I  had  ever  played.  The  louder  the 
author  swore  in  the  second  entrance,  the  louder 
the  audience  laughed,  and  the  harder  the  dog 
scratched.  Finally,  fearing  Terror  might  lie 
down  and  go  to  sleep,  I  seized  him  by  the  ears, 
pulled  his  nose  up  against  the  red  pad  on  my 
throat,  and  held  him  there  while  we  struggled 
desperately  about  the  stage,  the  heroine  scream- 
ing and  the  orchestra  playing  forte,  till  curtain. 
Then  the  star  and  author  kicked  the  dog  all 
over  the  stage  in  four  different  languages,  with 
a  Mott  Street  dialect.  All  of  this  I  could  have 
endured  in  silence,  but  when  the  star  came  to 
my  dressing-room  and  said,  <  Soy,  young  feller, 
ye  didn't  give  de  dog  his  cue/  I  took  him  gently 
but  firmly  by  the  hair  and  bumped  his  head 
against  the  door-jam.  The  Barber  Brothers  and 
dogs  have  now  offered  me  the  position  of  stage 
manager  and  leading  man  with  their  combina- 
tion." 

"Will  you  accept?"  asked  the  asthma  man. 

"  I  hardly  know.  Palmer  and  Dan  Frohman 
both  want  me,  but  they  won't  pay  anything. 


30  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

Abbey  has  written  me  not  to  close  until  he  gets 
back  from  Europe.  So  for  the  present  matters 
must  remain  in  status  guo." 

The  Lyceum  School  actor  listened  to  the 
closing  sentence  with  silent,  open-mouthed 
wonder;  the  tall  man  gazed  vacantly  at  the 
statue  of  Washington,  and  the  fat  comedian 
slid  down  the  baluster  into  the  basement  and 
hid  himself  behind  a  schooner. 


KOURTH 


"The  summer  days  have  come  again,  the 
saddest  of  the  year/'  sighed  the  tragedian,  as 
he  gracefully  wiped  a  bit  of  dust  from  his 
newly-ironed  hat.  The  fat  comedian  with  the 
Seymour  coat  evidently  thought  of  something 
very  funny,  for  a  smile  stole  over  his  face,  but 
whatever  the  gem  was  he  heroically  suppressed 
it,  seeing  that  the  tragedian  had  not  finished. 

"  I  am  moved  to  these  reflections,"  continued 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  31 

the  friend  of  Forrest,  "  by  the  remembrance  of 
a  painful  incident  which  occurred  this  morning 
as  I  was  about  to  leave  my  hotel  on  the  Rue  de 
la  Bleecker.  The  lack  of  confidence  which 
seems  to  prevail  among  boarding  housekeepers 
at  this  particular  season,  is  simply  absurd. 
However,  this  morning's  experience  is  but  one 
of  the  many  incidents,  trifling  in  themselves, 
yet  in  the  aggregate  embarrassing,  that  come 
with  each  summer's  solstice." 

The  Lyceum  School  actor,  who  lives  with  his 
family  and  has  not  yet  had  an  engagement, 
failed  to  catch  the  true  spirit  of  these  reflec- 
tions, but  the  fat  comedian  and  the  man  with 
the  duster  showed  by  the  thoughtful  cast  of 
•their  countenances  that  the  comedian  had 
struck  within  them  a  responsive  chord. 

"  I  rise,"  said  the  man  with  asthma,  "  to  a 
question  of  privilege." 

"The  member  from  the  Pacific  may  pro- 
ceed," said  the  tragedian. 

"  On  the  occasion  of  our  last  sitting " 

"  Standing,"  interrupted  the  comedian. 

"I  accept  the  amendment.  At  our  last 
1  standing '  I  recalled  an  incident  of  a  perform- 
ance of  Mazeppa  at  the  old  American  Theatre, 


32  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

San  Francisco,  in  1854.  A  few  days  later  I 
met  my  old  friend  McClosky  at  the  Fund  rooms. 
He  congratulated  me  upon  having  got  the  in- 
cidents so  perfect  after  so  many  years,  and  told 
me  a  part  of  the  story  which  I  had  forgotten. 
C.  R.  Thorne  (the  elder)  was  the  manager,  and 
Jim  Dowling  (dead)  was  stage  manager.  It 
was  Dowling  who  pushed  McClosky  in  front  of 
the  curtain  while  Lon  Phelps  was  bowing  his 
acknowledgments.  When  they  got  off  Phelps 
wanted  to  thrash  Mac,  insisting  that  he  had 
done  it  purposely.  It  seems  that  just  at  this 
time  Mrs.  Phelps  was  up  the  country  on  a  tour, 
and  Lon  had  made  an  impression  upon  a  fair 
'Friscan,  whom  he  had  in  front  nightly  to  wit- 
ness his  desperate  ride  and  hand  him  an" 
elaborate  bouquet  when  he  took  his  call.  Phelps 
accused  McClosky  of  showing  him  up  and  try- 
ing to  make  him  ridiculous,  and  they  didn't 
speak  as  they  passed  by  for  several  weeks.  '  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  it/  said  Lon,  'if  my  girl 
hadn't  been  in  front/  " 

"And  my  old  friend,  Jeremy  Diddler,  was 
right,"  said  the  tragedian.  "  No  weapon  so 
fatal  to  the  soldier,  the  sage  or  the  lover  as 
ridicule." 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  33 

"Right  you  are,"  said  the  fat  comedian,  "It 
was  ridicule  that  drove  me  into  comedy." 

"Ridicule  has  much  to  answer  for,"  said  the 
tragedian. 

The  tall  man  with  asthma  rattled  out  a  laugh; 
he  was  now  quits  with  the  comedian  for  a  for- 
mer thrust. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  comedian,  "  I  have  al- 
ways felt  that  nature  intended  me  for  a  tra- 
gedian ;  but  while  amply  endowing  me  with 
the  requisite  mental  resources,  she  made  my 
body  too  short." 

"And  your  nose  too  long,"  said  the  tall  man. 

"  I  was  all  right  in  utility,"  continued  the  fat 
man,  "but  my  trouble  commenced  when  I 
reached  the  walking  gents,  and  it  culminated 
the  folio wiug  season  when  I  tried  the  juveniles. 
I  was  with  Garry  Hough  on  the  Michigan  cir- 
cuit at  the  time.  We  used  to  travel  in  wagons 
and  show  under  canvas.  I  was  as  slim  as  a 
match,  and  didn't  weigh  over  a  hundred 
pounds.  Hough  got  hold  of  some  'society' 
lady,  who  wanted  to  play  Juliet.  Like  the 
most  of  ;em  she  was  fair,  fat,  and  anywhere 
from  35  to  50.  I  Lad  to  play  Romeo  with  her, 
and  I  nearly  got  lost  in  her  clothes  three  or 


34  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

four  times.  Every  time  she  embraced  me  I 
disappeared  and  the  audience  roared.  Her 
performadce  was  not  very  intellectual  nor  spir- 
ituelle,  but  when  she  fell  on  me  in  the  last  act 
in  front  of  Capulet's  tomb,  I  realized  that  what 
she  lacked  in  mind  she  made  up  in  matter.  It 
seems  that  I  had  died  on  the  trap  in  which  we 
had  buried  Ophelia  the  night  before,  and  when 
Juliet  struck  me  I  doubled  up  and  went  through. 
It  didn't  make  any  difference  with  the  play, 
however,  as  the  audience  couldn't  have  seen 
me,  anyway,  after  she  buried  me.  The  next 
night  we  were  doing  The  Hunchback.  The 
star  was  the  Julia  and  I  was  wrestling  with  Sir 
Thomas  Clifford.  We  got  along  very  nicely, 
until  the  last  act,  where  Sir  Thomas  enters  as 
my  lord's  secretary.  She  belched  out  her 
1  Clifford,  why  don't  you  speak  to  me?'  in  the 
old-time  style.  I  handed  her  the  letter,  saying, 
'A  letter  from  my  lord.'  At  that  moment  one 
of  the  mules  that  we  used  for  hauling  baggage, 
and  which  was  tied  to  the  wagon  near  by,  let  a 
series  of  unearthly  brays  out  of  himself  that 
fairly  shook  the  tent-poles.  When  the  echoes 
had  died  away  Julia  spoke  her  next  line,  *  'Twas 
Clifford's  voice  if  ever  Clifford  spoke.'  The 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  35 

play  ended  right  there,  and  I  went  into  low 
comedy  the  next  week." 

"Alas !  how  true  it  is,"  mused  the  tragedian, 
"that  the  braying  of  a  donkey  is  frequently 
more  potent  in  shaping  our  destinies  than  the 
voice  of  conscience  or  the  admonitions  of  friend- 
ship— which  reflection  calls  to  my  mind  a  little 
incident  not  unconnected  with  my  old  friend 
John  Burke.  The  major  has  been  many  things 
in  his  day — actor,  agent,  manager,  scout  (at 
Erastina),  author,  lecturer,  but  first,  and  all  the 
time,  genial,  big-hearted  John  Burke,  whom 
age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale.  John's 
labors  in  the  field  of  dramatic  authorship  are 
confined,  I  believe,  to  one  youthful  folly.  It 
was  in  Buffalo,  just  one-and-twenty  years  ago. 
Those  who  now  gaze  in  admiration  upon  John's 
massive,  manly  form,  could  scarcely  conceive 
the  slender  stripling  of  1867.  It  was  near  the 
end  of  the  season,  when  John  prevailed  on 
Manager  Carr  to  try  his  first  and  (I  believe)  last 
play.  I  have  forgotten  the  name,  but  it  is  not 
material  Burke  used  to  sit  in  the  orchestra 
and  observe  the  rehearsals.  It  was  in  the  days 
when  there  was  a  nightly  change  of  bill,  and  a 
daily  rehearsal  of  the  night's  play,  so  new  pro- 


36  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

ductions  stood  a  poor  chance.  But  John's  faith 
was  great,  and  as  we  began  to  evolve  a  little 
order  out  of  his  chaos,  his  confidence  became  a 
conviction.  One  thing  caused  us  all  some  un- 
easiness ;  the  leading  man  (poor  Dick  Healey) 
had  a  very  long  part,  and  at  the  last  rehearsal 
he  didn't  know  a  line.  However,  Dick  assured 
the  author  that  he  would  '  be  all  right  at  night/ 
and  told  Burke  that  it  was  a  great  play — sure 
winner.  On  this  assurance  Burke  went  to  the 
leading  restaurant  and  ordered  a  supper  for  the 
entire  company  and  members  of  the  press,  all 
of  whom  received  a  personal  invitation. 

"Well,  sir,  during  my  five-and  thirty  years 
of  professional  life,  I  have  officiated  in  different 
capacities  at  the  births  and  deaths  of  many 
dramatic  bantlings,  but  this  still-born  effort  of 
Burke's  aspiring  muse  was  something  entirely 
unique  in  my  experience ;  and  to  add  to  the 
horror  of  the  situation,  Healey  was  '  blind ;'  he 
couldn't  speak  a  line.  How  we  got  through 
that  night  has  been  a  mystery  to  me  ever  since. 
Poor  Dick  was  often  given  to  the  cup  that  cheers, 
but  he  had  got  far  beyond  the  cheering  point 
on  that  occasion.  The  performance  was  so  dire 
that  not  one  of  us  had  the  courage  to  meet  the 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  37 

author  or    share   his   supper.      He  had  been 
modest  and   unassuming,   and   we   all   felt  a 
genuine  sympathy   for   him.      But  the   play, 
aside  from  Healy's  dereliction,  was  so  bad  that 
we  could   not   possibly   have   said  a  cheering 
thing  to  him,  and  so  we  all  went  quietly  home. 
The  critics  left  after  the  first  act.     But  John 
remembered  his  obligations  as  a  host,  and  going 
to  the  restaurant  seated  himself  at  the  head  of 
the  table  and  awaited  the  arrival  of  his  guests. 
In  about  thirty  minutes  a  solitary  figure  loomed 
up  in  the  door.     It  was  Healy,  full  to  the  eyes. 
Dick  steadied  himself  against  the  door  for  a 
minute,  and  then  made  a  pass  for  the  nearest 
chair;  he  missed  it  and  fell  across  the  table. 
Recovering  and  bracing  himself  against  a  chair, 
he  threw  an  arm  around  Burk's  neck,  exclaim- 
ing :     '  S'great  play,  John,  s'great  play — how'gi 
like  my  las'  tact  ? '     John  placed  him  gently  in 
a  chair  and  then  withdrew  to  a  respectful  dis- 
tance and  gazed  at  his  guest.     And  there  let 
us  leave  them,"  said  the  tragedian,  "  the  author 
and  his  bete  noir."     In  the  abundant  prosperity 
of  later  years,  John  can  well  afford  to  smile  at 
this  failure  and  to  forgive  the  one  who  aggra- 
vated his  sufferings.     Dick  was  a  good  actor  of 


38  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

the  old  school,  but,  like  many  of  his  fellows, 
his  own  worst  enemy.  Poor  Dick  has  long 
since  joined  the  silent  majority,  and  last  year 
his  good  wife  met  him  on  the  other  side.  Let 
us  shed  a  tear  to  his  memory;  but  cast  no 
stones,  for  none  of  us  are  without  sin." 


RIKTH 


"  Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my 
lord,  is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls," 
murmured  the  tragedian,  and  then  for  a  mo- 
ment he  seemed  lost  in  thought. 

It  was  the  comedian's  opportunity,  and  he 
seized  it:  "Who  steals  my  purse  steals  trash." 

"  Me,  too,  sighed  the  tall  man  with  asthma. 

The  Lyceum  School  man  felt  that  the  con- 
versation was  drifting  in  a  dangerous  direction, 
but  he  had  thoughtfully  put  on  his  other  pan- 
taloons that  morning,  so  he  resolved  to  remain 
during  the  session. 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  39 

"  And,"  continued  the  friend  of  Forrest,  "  I 
might  add  parenthetically  that  '  there  is  a 
divinity  that  shapes  our  ends  rough — hew  them 
how  we  will.'  I  am  aware  that  mine  is  not  the 
accepted  rendering  of  this  oft-quoted  paragraph, 
yet  it  is  a  reading  that  is  instructive  as  illus- 
trating how  as  small  a  thing  as  a  misplaced 
comma  may  paraphrase  panegyric  and  pervert 
philosophy." 

The  comedian  scratched  his  fat  chin  thought- 
fully, and  remained  discreetly  silent,  feeling, 
no  doubt,  that  the  conversation  had  drifted  a 
little  beyond  him.  The  Lyceum  School  man 
made  a  pencil  mem.  on  an  envelope,  and  the 
tragedian  continued : 

"  I  had  contemplated  for  to-day  a  sail  upon 
the  noble  Hudson,  aye,  even  to  the  capital  of 
our  Empire  State,  where  Mr.  O'Flannagan,  Mr. 
O'Gaff,  Mr.  O'Gunn,  Mr.  O'Gall,  Mr.  McGlue, 
Mr.  McSwag  and  Mr.  O'Boodle  do  make  laws 
for  the  government  of  the  free  and  untrainmeled 
American  citizen.  But  when  I  visited  my 
father's  brother  with  a  view  to  furthering  this 
design,  there  appeared  between  that  relative  and 
myself  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  relative 
value  of  certain  collaterals  so  great  as  to  cause 


40  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

a  temporary  abandonment  of  my  plans.  And 
so  for  the  nonce  I'll  bask  in  the  rosy  noon-day 
sun,  and  hie  me  to  the  inviting  green  that  glints 
athwart  the  Rialto." 

"Speaking  of  a  sail  upon  the  Hudson,"  began 
the  man  with  the  duster,  "  reminds  me  of  an 
incident  that  occurred — " 

"In  Sacramento?"  asked  the  fat  comedian. 
"  No,  sir,"  continued  the  man  with  asthma, 
u  this  one  ante-dates  even  the  days  of  '49.  In- 
deed it  takes  us  way  back  into  the  thirties,  and 
it  has  come  down  to  me  through  two  genera- 
tions. Uncle  Ben  Baker  is  my  sponsor  for  this 
one :  Among  the  early  exponents  of  the  drama 
in  this  country  was  the  Chapman  family,  the 
grand-parents  of  the  present  generation  of  that 
family,  now  doing  honorable  service  in  various 
branches  of  the  profession.  At  the  time  under 
consideration  the  Chapmans  had  a  theatre  of 
their  own.  It  was  not  exactly  built  upon  the 
sand,  but  upon  a  flat-boat,  and  floated  with  the 
current  from  town  to  town  along  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi  rivers.  The  guild  was  little  better 
than  vagabonds  then.  No  private  cars,  no  spe- 
cial trains,  no  palace  hotels,  no  gilded  temples 
of  Thespis.  It  was  a  daily  struggle,  and  some 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  41 

days  a  very  hard  one,  for  the  necessaries  of  life. 
The  players,  of  course,  lived  on  the  boat,  and 
in  the  absence  of  money  were  frequently  obliged 
to  take  vegetables,  eggs,  poultry,  etc.,  for  tickets. 
Mrs.  Chapman  sold  tickets  and  played  the  heavy 
leads.  She  had  a  little  office  on  the  bow  of  the 
boat,  with  bins  and  compartments  for  receiving 
the  merchandise,  and  directly  over  her  head 
was  a- little  sliding  trap-door,  which  opened  into 
a  chicken  coop  on  the  roof.  One  evening  about 
1835,  Chapman's  Theatre  was  tied  to  a  stake 
near  the  boat  landing  at  New  Madrid,  Mo.  The 
play  was  to  be  Othello.  John  Stith  was  the 
Othello  and  Wm.  Wharem  the  lago.  Times 
were  hard  and  money  scarce,  but  green  corn, 
eggs  and  chickens  came  in  plentifully,  and 
many  times  had  Mrs.  Chapman  before  going 
back  to  dress  for  Emelia,  opened  the  little  door 
over  her  head,  and  pushed  a  nice  fat  pullet  into 
the  coop. 

"  Wharem  was  a  devoted  fisherman,  and  at 
almost  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  could  be 
found  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  boat  angling 
for  cat-fish.  In  those  days  there  were  cat  in 
the  Mississippi  weighing  from  twenty  to  seventy 
pounds,  and  one  of  them  once  fastened  to  the 


42  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

monster  hook,  it  required  both  skill  and  strength 
to  land  him.  The  stage  was  on  the  rear  of  the 
boat,  and  this  night  Wharem  was  fishing  di- 
rectly opposite  the  R.  i.  E.,  his  seat  not  more 
than  four  feet  from  the  stage.  He  had  fished 
the  entire  afternoon  without  a  bite,  and  after 
dressing  for  lago  he  went  at  it  again.  » 

"  The  colored  boy,  who  was  '  general  utility ' 
about  the  boat,  would  hold  the  line  when 
Wharem  went  on  for  his  scenes.  The  curtain 
went  up  on  the  third  act,  and  Wharem  heard 
his  cue  for  entering  with  Othello.  He  looked 
for  the  boy,  but  he  was  gone ;  again  the  cue 
was  given  and  there  wasn't  a  thing  at  hand  to 
which  he  could  make  fast  his  line,  and  he 
couldn't  afford  to  let  it  go,  so  bending  down  he 
tied  the  end  firmly  about  his  ankle  and  rushed 
on  the  stage  just  in  time  to  catch  his  cue  on 
the  third  repeat.  'Sweet  wench,  perdition 
catch  my  soul,  but  I  do  love  thee,  and  when  I 
love  thee  not  chaos  is  come  again/  quoth 
Othello.  Then  he  crossed  left,  and  caught  his 
foot  in  lago's  fish-line.  '  What  in  h —  is  that  ? ' 
growled  Stith,  and  lago  answered  'my  fish- 
line.'  '  Did  Michael  Cassio,  when  you  wooed 
my  lady,  know  of  your  love  ? '  '  Oh,  yes,  and 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian,  43 

went  between  us  very  oft/  said  Othello.     Then 
he  started  to  cross,  but  saw  the  fish-line  and  re- 
mained in  left  corner.     lago  began  to  get  his 
work  in  now,  and  had  just  said,  '  Beware,  my 
lord,  of  jealousy,  it  is  the  green-eyed  mons — ' 
when  his  right  leg  went  out  from  under  him 
like  a  shot.     He  gathered  himself  quickly  and 
tried  it  again :  '  monster  that  doth  make  the 
meat  it  feeds ' — and  then  came  a  succession  of 
quick,  savage  jerks  at  lago's  leg,  which  nearly 
upset  him  a  second  time.     Determined  not  to 
lose  his  fish  Wharem  interpolated  :  '  My  lord,  I 
fear  that  in  my  great  love  I  have  gone  too  far. 
(Jerk  !  jerk !)    I  will  leave  you  one  moment  to 
your  thoughts,  anon  I  will  return/     And  reach- 
ing down  he  grabbed  the  line  and  rushed  for 
the  side  of  the  boat.     And  then  the  fun  com- 
menced.    Othello  sat  down,  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  waited   for  lago  to  land    his 
game.    Cassio,  Roderigo  and  Desdemona  eager!  y 
watched  the  struggle.     Finally  the  monster  cat, 
after  pulling  as  though  he  weighed  a  ton,  sud- 
denly changed  his  tactics,  jumped  clear  of  the 
water  and  landed  on  the  boat.      The  sudden 
slacking  of  the  terrible  tension  took  lago  so 
completely  by  surprise  that  he  staggered  back 


44  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

and  fell  his  length  on  the  stage,  in  full  view  of 
the  audience,  dragging  the  forty-pound  cat  fish 
after  him." 

"  Did  Un'cle  Ben  furnish  you  with  any  data 
or  circumstantial  evidence  of  the  historical 
accuracy  of  this  cat-fish  story  ?  "  asked  the  tra- 
gedian. 

"Not  exactly;  he  simply  jotted  the  points 
down  from  memory  on  a  Fund  letter-head." 

"  That  is  of-^sft-al,"  said  the  comedian,  but 
the  painful  stillness  with  which  the  remark  was 
received  convinced  him  that  it  was  ill-timed. 

"  But  the  funniest  part  of  the  performance 
came  afterward,"  continued  the  man  with  the 
duster.  "Bet ween  acts  Emelia  and  Brabantio 
slipped  out  to  count  up,  or,  rather,  weigh 
up,  the  receipts.  They  found  two  dollars  and 
ten  cents  in  cash,  twenty-two  watermelons, 
three  dozen  eggs,  and  a  small  supply  of  sweet 
potatoes  and  green  corn.  Every  seat  was  filled. 
*  There  must  have  been  a  big  run  on  chickens 
to-night/  said  Brabantio  Chapman,  seeing  the 
meagre  assets  in  other  directions.  'Indeed 
there  was/  replied  Emelia ;  '  there  must  be  at 
least  fifty  nice  fat  pullets  in  the  coop/  Papa 
Chapman  rushed  up  to  get  a  look  at  them,  and 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  45 

horror  of  horrors  !  the  coop  was  empty  !  And 
what  do  you  suppose  those  miserable  New  Mad- 
ridians  had  done?  They  had  ' faked'  one 
pullet  on  the  old  lady  all  the  evening,  using  a 
little  bare-footed  nigger  to  slip  up  over  the  stern 
of  the  boat  and  steal  it  out  as  fast  as  she  put  it 
in,  and  when  the  whole  town  was  in  the  nigger 
stole  the  chicken  on  his  own  account  and  went 
home. 

"Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chapman  were  good 
Methodists,  but  it  is  reported  that  the  atmos- 
phere about  that  flatboat  became  suddenly  blue 
when  the  true  inwardness  of  the  scheme  dawned 
on  the  old  gentleman.  *  Arid  to  think  that 
these  miserable  Missouri  heathens  should  be 
quietly  enjoying  a  Shakespearian  masterpiece, 
played  as  only  the  Chapmans  can  play  it,  for 
two  dollars  and  ten  cents  csah  and  twenty-three 
watermelons  I  D — n  'em !  But  I'll  be  even 
with  'em ! ' 

"  The  curtain  had  just  rung  up  on  the  fourth 
act,  and  the  old  man  slipped  his  cables  and 
pushed  his  '  temple  of  Thespis'  out  into  the 
current  and  went  on  with  the  play.  Just  before 
the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act  he  pushed  in 
shore  and  made  fast,  and  that  audience  had  to 
walk  home  ten  miles  through  a  swamp," 


46  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

"  In  more  serious  vein,"  said  the  tragedian, 
"  I  feel  called  upon  to  intimate  to  you  that  my 
time  of  rest  and  recreation  is  nearing  its  end, 
and  these,  our  pleasant  confabs,  our  soulful  in- 
termingling of  facts  and  fictions  of  our  noble 
guild,  past  and  present,  must  soon  be  numbered 
among  the  treasured  stores  of  memories.  Pos- 
sibly our  next  gathering  will  be  the  last  until 
the  warm  suns  of  another  June  shall  draw  to 
this  busy  mart  the  wandering  children  of 
Thespis." 


'The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 


47 


SIXTH 


HE  TAKES  LEAVE  OF  HIS  COMPANIONS  WITH  A  FEW 
FARTING  SHOTS  AT  FOLLY  AS  SHE  FLIES— A 
TOUCH  OF  PATHOS— THE  STORY  OF  A  LIFE. 

"  I  feel,"  said  the  tragedian  seriously,  "  that 
I  have  been  a  victim  of  that  'vaulting  ambition 
that  o'erleaps  itself  and  falls  on  t'other  side  ?' 
During  my  last  year's  tour  with  the  Crummels' 


48  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

Tragic  Aggregation,  I  met  at  Jincksville,  Iowa, 
an  elderly  commercial  tourist  of  the  Hebrew 
persuasion,  hailing  from  this  great  city.  He 
had  that  night  witnessed  my  Virginius,  and  he 
felt  called  upon  to  say  to  me  that  my  perform- 
ance, though  miserable  and  meagre  in  its  sur- 
roundings, had  at  times  forcibly  reminded  him 
of  'the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all,1  Forrest, 
whom  he  had  known  and  greatly  admired.  He 
assured  me  that  in  the  metropolis  there  was  a 
dearth  of  genuine  ability.  '  In  point  of  fact/ 
said  my  friend, '  New  York  is  hungry  for  a  good 
actor/  and  so  I  came.  During  my  year's  so- 
journ in  and  about  the  metropolis  I  have  learned 
many  things.  My  friend  may  or  may  not  have 
been  right  regarding  New  York's  theatrical  ap- 
petite, but  if  she  hungers,  it's  a  hunger  mani- 
festly that  does  not  crave  Roman  fathers,  mel- 
ancholy Danes  or  vengeful  Moors,  and  so,  hav- 
ing no  revenue  but  my  good  spirits  to  feed  and 
clothe  me,  I  have,  in  lieu  of  the  umber  of 
Othello,  donned  the  cork  of  Uncle  Tom,  play- 
ing seconds  to  the  jackass. 

"Instead  of  slaying  the  centurion's  virgin 
daughter  in  the  market  place,  I  have  served  as 
a  stage  mop  for  the  bull-dog  in  the  Barber 


TJie  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  49 

Brothers'  great  canine  drama  of  Foiled  Again. 
Instead  of  Hamlet's  philosophic  sea  of  troubles, 
I  have  plunged  me  in  the  mammoth  tank  to 
rescue  the  drowning  heroine  in  Bluster's  great 
masterpiece,  The  Luring  Lights,  or,  The  Gaul 
of  Gotham.  And  yet  my  year  on  the  Rialto 
has  not  been  altogether  unfruitful.  I  have,  I 
trust,  acquired  some  knowledge  of  modern 
methods.  I  have  observed  that  the  popular 
idols  write  to  the  morning  papers  a  history  of 
their  bright  sayings,  and  tell  how  they  saved 
the  poor  author  by  their  ready  fund  of  wit  and 
repartee,  and  as  they  have  recalled  some  of 
their  bright  originations,  I  have  recognized 
them  in  spite  of  their  crutches  and  white  beards 
as  old  friends ;  and  then  I  have  remembered 
how,  when  a  merry  child,  with  long  flaxen 
curls,  my  grandfather  took  me  on  his  knee  and 
told  me  that  same  old  gag ;  and  I  have  said  to 
myself,  if  these  misguided  geniuses  have  no 

friends  to  admonish  them,  I  will  for  the  nonce 

* 

play  jackass  and  bray  in  their  ears :  '  See  that 
those  who  play  your  clowns  speak  no  more  than 
is  set  down  for  them;'  and  while  the  actors 
have  been  telling  the  public  how  they  pad  their 
bad  parts,  the  ballet  girls  have  been  telling  how 


50  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

they  pad  their  bad  legs ;  and  in  the  category 
with  bad  parts  and  bad  legs,  let  me  not  forget 
to  include  the  bad  English  in  which  they  are 
summarized. 

"  The  ballet  girls  have  told  an  anxious  pub- 
lic, in  the  Sunday  issues,  all  about  their  tights 
and  how  they  fill  in  the  holes  to  make'em  fit. 
This,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  will  be  followed  by 
a  desertation  on  knit  undershirts ;  to  conclude, 
probably,  with  an  exhaustive  treatise  on  bureau 
and  other  drawers  collectively.  In  the  light  of 
these  and  other  incidents  that  I  have  noted 
during  my  sojourn  in  the  metropolis,  I  can 
readily  discern  that  the  effete  East  is  approach- 
ing to  that  perfection  in  matters  of  light  amuse- 
ment which  has  heretofore  prevailed  in  Lead- 
ville  and  El  Paso.  The  difference  seems  to  me 
to  be  a  difference  merely  of  quality  and  degree 
—the  quality  of  the  beverage  and  the  degree  of 
pretentiousness  with  which  they  dish  it  up. 
For 

Call  it  by  what  sounding1  title  ye  will, 

The  stench  of  the  wine  room  will  cling  to  it  still." 

"And  so  you  are  going  back  to  your  old  love 
again!"  said  the  comedian.  "  Well,  old  pard, 
the  gang  will  miss  you." 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  51 

"  They  will  indeed,"  said  the  man  with 
asthma,  and  taking  the  old  actor's  hand  in  both 
his  own,  he  added  with  real  feeling,  "  and  the 
few  of  us  who  have  known  you  best  will  miss 
you  most." 

The  tragedian  felt  the  sincerity  of  both,  and 
taking  a  hand  of  each,  pressed  them  long  and 
tenderly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  feel  lost  in  the  big  town, 
after  twenty  years  on  the  cross-roads.  Crum- 
mels  has  written  that  they  want  me  there,  al- 
though they  don't  seem  to  want  me  here.  We 
all  make  our  mistakes,  if  mistakes  they  can  be 
called.  I  suppose  I  made  my  mistake  at  the 
end  of  the  war.  I  came  home  with  a  shattered 
arm,  and  a  memento  of  the  siege  of  Vicksburg 
buried  somewhere  in  my  thigh.  Had  I  re- 
turned with  Fox  to  the  Old  Bowery,  possibly  I 
might  have  kept  abreast  the  times.  But  I  had 
mingled  freely  with  hard-handed,  big-hearted 
men  of  the  West  and  South  ;  I  had  fought  be- 
side them  on  many  fields,  and  talked  with  them 
by  many  campfires ;  and  so  I  grew  to  love  them, 
and  when  the  end  came,  I  linked  my  humble 
destiny  with  theirs.  And  now,  in  the  great  West, 
they  ask  for  me  again,  and  I  shall  go.  Truly* 


52  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

they  cannot  always  give  me  gilded  palaces  for 
play  houses,  but  even  from  their  wooden 
benches  their  big  human  hearts  will  warm  to 
the  Master's  thoughts,  and  so  for  a  moment  lin- 
ger with  the  poor  player  striving  in  his  weak 
way  to  give  them  substance.  Often  the  dingy 
stage  will  have  no  light  but  flickering  oil  lamps, 
but  where  the  glowing  thoughts  of  the  mighty 
Bard  do  breathe  and  burn,  there  can  be  no 
darkness.  I  shall  not  miss  the  glaring  light, 
the  tinseled  glitter,  nor  the  hangings  of  rich 
satins  and  velvets,  for  when  I  don  Othello's 
robe  I  shall  live  for  those  brief  hours  in  Venice 
and  Cyprus.  When  Hamlet's  inky  cloak  I  wear 
I  shall  feel  the  nipping  and  eager  air  on  the 
platform,  and  wander  in  feigned  madness 
through  the  stately  halls  of  Elsinore.  True, 
the  next  hour  finds  me  again  in  Jincksville 
and  Rogers  Corners,  but  even  there  I  find  kin- 
dred souls,  men  and  women  who  love  the  drama 
for  the  drama's  sake,  and  together  we  can  lay 
our  poor  tribute  at  the  shrine  of  one  who  wrote 
for  all  time  and  for  all  conditions  of  men." 

With  this  last  reference  to  the  master,  the 
tragedian  lifted  his  hat  reverently  and  then 
abstractedly  placed  it  on  a  beer  keg,  as  he  took 
again  the  hands  of  his  companions. 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  53 

"  For  any  unkind  word  I  may  have  uttered, 
for  any  moment's  pain  I  may  have  caused  you, 
I  ask  to  be  forgiven ;  and  let  my  disclaiming 
from  a  purposed  evil  free  me  so  far  in  your 
most  generous  thoughts  that  I  have  shot  my 
'arrow  o'er  the  house  and  hurt  my  brother.'" 

"  There  needs  no  ghost  come  from  the  grave 
to  tell  us  this,"  said  the  tall  man.  The  fat 
comedian  said  nothing,  but  he  lifted  his  hat  in- 
stinctively, and  a  tear  trickled  down  his  fat 
cheek.  The  Lyceum  School  actor,  who  had  not 
ventured  into  the  conversation  upon  this  occa- 
sion, stood  respectfully  in  the  background,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand.  The  tragedian  turned 
toward  the  tall  man,  who  was  also  uncovered, 
and  pressed  his  hand  gently.  He  seemed  about 
to  speak,  but  the  chin  quivered,  the  eye 
moistened,  and  there  was  a  moment  of  eloquent 
silence  in  the  little  group,  finally  broken  by  the 
tragedian. 

"  Should  you  at  any  time  hear  the  old  player 
mentioned  in  terms  of  respect  or  of  kindness, 
say  nothing ;  but  if  in  words  of  shallow  ribaldry, 
then  '  speak  of  me  as  I  am,  nothing  extenuate, 
nor  set  down  aught  in  malice.'  " 

The  tall  man  looked  into  his  companion's 


54  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

face.  It  was  serious,  sad,  almost  tragic.  The 
lines  seemed  deeper  than  usual  about  the  eyes; 
his  hair  was  white  about  the  roots ;  his  face, 
almost  classic  in  its  delicate  beauty,  was  un- 
usually pale,  and  it  was  plainly  evident  that 
he  was  in  the  throes  of  a  terrible  mental  strug- 
gle. At  length  he  began  slowly : 

"I  am  fifty-eight  to-day.  And  in  the  au- 
tumn of  life's  ceaseless  struggle,  I  find  myself 
poor  indeed  in  worldly  goods,  but  rich  in  hal- 
lowed memories.  Something,  I  know  not  what, 
moves  me  to  speak  of  that  which  I  had  thought 
to  carry  with  me  along  the  silent  river.  This 
morning  I  visited  a  lonely  grave  at  Cypress 
Hill.  It  was  overgrown  with  ivy  and  wild  vio- 
lets, but  no  weeds  had  been  allowed  to  flourish 
in  the  sacred  soil,  for  though  often  lost  to  sight 
that  grave  has  always  been  to  memory  dear. 
A  modest  slab  tells  the  passer  that  a  young 
mother  and  her  first-bcrn  are  buried  in  one  cof- 
fin there.  And  there  amid  the  violets  I  sat, 
and  my  mind  went  back  through  the  changing 
kaleidoscope  of  five-and-thirty  years.  I  was  a 
boy  again  on  the  old  Granite  Hills.  But  mine 
was  a  boyhood  with  few  boyish  pleasures.  My 
father  came  of  the  old  Puritan  stock,  and  be- 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  55 

lieved  that  this  life  was  but  a  period  of  purga- 
tion for  the  life  to  come.  Graduating  from 
Harvard,  a  stern  father's  will  mapped  out  my 
life  in  grooves  as  narrow  as  had  been  his  own. 
He  sought  to  force  me  into  the  ministry,  and  I 
had  elected  to  become  a  player.  But  something 
mightier  than  a  father's  will  had  unwittingly 
taken  a  hand  in  the  shaping  of  my  destiny. 
That  subtle  spell  that  makes  serfs  of  kings  and 
kings  of  serfs,  had  fallen  upon  me.  I  had  felt 
the  hallowed  joy  that  comes  with  chaste  woman's 
love.  In  the  scale  against  such  a  passion  a 
stern  father's  threats  and  a  gentle  mother's  en- 
treaties weighed  as  nothing ;  and  so  we  parted 
— the  father  to  seek  justification  in  his  Calvin- 
istic  creeds;  the  heartbroken  mother  to  weep 
and  pray  for  both ;  the  outcast  son  to  begin  his 
life-battle  with  only  his  pride,  his  manhood  and 
his  love. 

"For  three  years  the  struggle  was  a  hard 
one,  but  I  had  youth  and  affection  to  buoy  me, 
and  so  long  as  I  kept  her  from  suffering  I  was 
content.  And  she  was  so  gentle,  so  loving  and 
so  hopeful.  At  last  my  recognition  came,  and 
with  it  assured  position  and  prospective  tri- 
umphs ;  and  oh,  the  joy  that  filled  our  young 


56  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

hearts !  It  was  such  a  joy  as  comes  only  to 
those  who  have  loved,  and  suffered  for  that 
love's  sake.  One  day,  upon  returning  from  a 
rehearsal,  she  met  me  in  the  door  of  our  modest 
home  with  a  look  in  her  face  I  had  never  seen 
there  before.  She  appeared  half  shy,  half 
frightened,  yet  she  smiled  and  held  me  closely 
in  her  loving  arms  for  a  moment,  then  hid  her 
sweet,  blushing  face  on  my  breast,  and  then  I 
knew  I  had  two  lives  to  live  for.  I  played 
Romeo  that  night  to  the  Juliet  of  Julia  Dean  ; 
and,  oh,  how  I  did  play  it !  My  fellow-actors 
stood  wondering  in  the  wings,  and  the  star  came 
to  the  entrance  and  applauded  me  and  took  me 
before  the  curtain  at  the  end  of  the  third  act. 
How  little  they  knew  of  the  source  of  my  inspi- 
ration !  During  the  succeeding  months  I  hon- 
estly believe  that  we  were  as  happy  as  God  has 
ever  permitted  two  of  His  children  to  be  ;  and 
through  it  all  there  stole  a  sweet  conviction  that 
when  the  little  one  came,  and  we  had  taught 
its  infant  lips  to  say  '  Granma '  and  *  Grandpa/ 
the  cruel  past  would  be  obliterated,  lor  I  was  an 
only  child." 

The  old  actor  paused  and  buried  his  face  for 
a  moment  in  his  hands,  but  no  one  presumed 
to  speak. 


The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian.  57 

"At  last,"  he  said,  through  tears  he  could 
not  keep  back,  "  my  day  of  destiny  dawned, 
and  by  a  strange  coincidence  it  was  my  own 
birthday.  I  left  her  on  a  snowy  couch,  scarce 
whiter  than  her  own  fair  skin,  and  hurried  to 
the  theatre,  where  that  night  I  played  a  dissi- 
pated, worthless  roue.  Hurrying  home,  half 
dressed,  and  with  my  make-up  on,  I  was  met 
on  the  threshold  by  a  palid  face  and  a  warning 
•  Sh ! '  that  froze  the  marrow  in  my  bones.  In 
breathless  silence  I  stole  to  her  side.  The 
shadow  of  life's  destroyer  was  at  the  bedside  ; 
but  a  sweet  smile  of  recognition  greeted  me 
from  the  verge  of  the  spirit  world,  and  when 
that  smile  had  faded  heaven  was  richer  by  two 
angels." 

If  tears  have  power  to  cleanse  us  of  our  sins, 
then  surely  that  little  group  of  players  was 
purged  of  many  transgressions  during  the  brief 
silence  that  intervened. 

The  tragedian  was  first  to  speak :  "  And  then 
the  wild  alarums  of  dreadful  war  rang  through 
the  land.  Our  common  mother  called  upon 
her  faithful  sons  to  tear  from  her  throat  the 
clutch  of  the  matricide.  What  followed  you 
already  know.  This  week,  God  willing,  I  shall 


58  The  Palmy  Day  Tragedian. 

visit  the  home  of  my  boyhood.  I  shall  see  the 
quaint  old  church  where  my  father  read  the 
Law  according  to  the  light  he  had,  and  where 
my  sainted  mother  knelt,  in  firm,  implicit  faith ; 
and  in  the  old  churchyard  I  shall  kneel  and 
place  upon  two  moss-covered  graves  the  violets 
and  the  ivy  that  I  brought  to-day  from  Cypress 
Hill." 

Then  taking  a  hand  of  each  companion  in 
his  own,  he  said  impressively:  "When  that 
is  done,  I'll  to  the  West,  to  storm  the  barns  once 
more,  and  e're  we  meet  again,  mayhap  I  shall 
have  shifted  to  the  lean  and  slippered  panta- 
loon, sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  teeth,  sans  smell, 
sans  everything."  The  rest  is  silence. 


YORIGK'S  SKULL. 


(For  the  incidents,  and  a  great  portion  of  the  narratire  con- 
tained in  the  true  storieg  of  Yorick's  Skull  and  Hard  Times, 
I  am  indebted  to  my  old  friend  James  M.  Martin,  the 
pioneer  actor  and  journalist.) 


property  man  of  to-day  is  too  often 
the  pariah  of  the  dramatic  profes- 
sion with  no  knowledge  whatever  of 
"props."  His  duties  seem  to  be  entirely  em- 
braced in  setting  chairs  and  tables  in  the  wrong 
place  in  a  very  perfunctory  manner.  The  prop- 
erty man  of  the  "  palmy  days  "  was  an  artisan 
of  the  highest  type  and  a  real  power  in  a  the- 
atre. Certain  conventional  articles  were  always 
to  be  found,  even  in  the  poorest  establishments, 
and  among  them  was  the  skull  for  Hamlet. 
This  "  prop."  might  be  turned  out  of  wood  or 
manufactured  of  papier  mache.  Large  turnips 
deftly  carved,  and  I  have  known  of  a  pu  mpkin 
neatly  sculptured  and  painted,  to  do  duty  as 
Yorick's  cranium.  But  a  real  property  man 
never  felt  that  the  requirements  were  complied 


60  Yorick's  SMI. 

with  unless  he  had  a  real  skull  for  the  great 
tragedy. 

In  1868  or  thereabouts,  Jack  Langrishe  was 
to  open  a  new  theatre  for  a  long  season  in 
Helena,  Montana.  The  company  played  up 
the  Union  Pacific  road  as  far  as  Corinne,  where 
we  were  to  take  transportation  for  Helena. 
We  learned  that  the  theatre  would  not  be  com- 
pleted for  several  weeks.  The  ladies  were  sent 
on  ahead  in  stage  coaches,  while  the  "  boys " 
who  wanted  to  hunt  and  fish  were  to  follow  at 
their  leisure  in  carriages  and  mud  wagons. 

Early  one  morning,  the  dramatic  outfit  heavily 
loaded,  and  the  boys  who  had  been  making 
merry  with  the  "jolly  dogs"  of  Corinne,  also 
heavily  loaded,  pulled  out  to  cover  six  hundred 
miles  between  the  railroad  and  Helena. 

We  had  great  sport  hunting  and  fishing. 
Nothing  of  interest  occurred  until  we  got  to  the 
Milk  Ranch  on  White-Tail-Deer  Creek.  J.  M. 
Martin,  who  was  in  the  company,  was  one  of 
the  early  men  in  Montana.  In  1862-'63-'64 
that  territory  was  overrun  by  the  most  desper- 
ate crowd  of  murderers,  assassins  and  road 
agents  that  the  world  ever  saw.  The  vigilantes 
organized  and  hanged  them  by  scores.  He  was 


Yorick's  SMI  61 

well  acquainted  with  the  various  localities  of 
interest,  and  this  very  Milk  Ranch  some  years 
before  had  an  evil  reputation.  But  at  the  time 
of  which  we  now  speak  it  had  passed  into  the 
hands  of  honorable  men.  We  camped  on  the 
creek  about  a  mile  from  the  ranch  and  turned 
the  mules  out.  It  is  said  a  mule  will  serve  you 
faithfully  twenty  years  to  get  a  chance  to  kick 
your  brains  out.  The  conduct  of  ours  had  been 
exemplary ;  they  were  always  to  be  found  when 
wanted,  and  we  kept  no  guard.  Martin,  by 
unanimous  vote,  was  elected  cook.  This  dig- 
nity involved  the  disagreeable  necessity  of  turn- 
ing out  before  daylight,  building  a  fire  and  pre- 
paring breakfast.  When  the  feast  was  prepared 
the  tocsin  was  sounded  by  beating  on  a  frying 
pan  and  the  guests  assembled  This  morning 
the  mules  to  preserve  their  record  of  subtle  ras- 
cality, had  run  away.  All  hands  buried  out  in 
pursuit.  Logan  Paul,  Jimmy  Griffith,  a  most 
useful  actor  and  thorough  property  man,  and 
Martin,  went  down  the  creek.  The  stream  was 
fringed  on  either  side  with  a  dense  growth  of 
willows.  The  mule  is  a  cunning  beast  and  will 
often  hide  in  such  places.  A  yell  from  Logan 
brought  Griffith  and  Martin  to  him,  Logan 


62  Yorick's  Skull. 

was  a  boy  then,  and  his  nerves  were  nervous. 
Standing  on  the  edge  of  a  clump  of  willows 
with  the  perspiration  pouring  down  his  pale 
face,  he  pointed  to  the  centre  of  the  under- 
growth. 

"  What  is  it?  "  they  exclaimed. 

"  In  there !  "  he  gasped. 

"  What's  in  there ;  the  mules?  " 

"No,"  faltered  Logan, 

"What  in  1 !! !! did  you 

call  me  for ! "  exclaimed  Griffith. 

"  Is  this  your  idea  of  a  joke  ?  "  yelled  Martin, 
who  had  waded  through  the  icy  stream  and 
was  shivering. 

"  Man  there !  "  ejaculated  Logan. 

"  Man  I  "  they  echoed.  "  What's  he  done  to 
you?"  * 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Logan,  "  he's  dead  I  " 

"Dead!"  They  rushed  into  the  willows,  in 
the  centre  of  a  thick  clump,  was  a  portion  of 
the  skeleton  of  a  large  man  which  had  been 
burned  away  from  the  hips  to  the  middle  of 
the  ribs.  From  the  place  where  the  remains 
were  found  and  their  position,  this  could  hardly 
have  been  accidental.  Scraps  of  the  under  and 
upper  clothing,  scattered  around,  were  of  extra 


Yorick's  Skutt.  63 

fine  quality.  The  boots,  in  which  remained 
the  desicated  feet  and  legs,  were  of  the  fashion- 
able high-heeled  California  manufacture.  The 
remaining  portions  of  the  frame  were  denuded 
of  flesh,  and  had  evidently  been  there  a  long 
time.  But  the  object  of  interest  was  the  skull, 
which  was  large  and  symetrical.  The  teeth 
\\ere  beautiful,  complete,  sound  and  regular, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  in  front  on  the  left 
side  which  were  worn  slightly  concave,  the  re- 
sult, as  we  imagined,  of  holding  a  clay  pipe 
there  when  smoking.  No  papers  or  effects  of 
any  kind  could  be  discovered.  In  spite  of  per- 
sistent inquiries  aided  by  the  press,  nothing 
could  be  learned  of  him.  After  mature  de- 
liberation we  concluded  to  leave  the  remains  as 
they  were,  and  report  at  Helena.  Griffith, 
however,  had  an  artistic  eye  to  business.  He 
wanted  a  first-class  tragic  skull  for  Harnlet,  a 
skull  with  a  romance  and  a  history  connected 
with  it. 

"Why,"  he  declared  with  enthusiasm,  "I 
might  hunt  the  earth  over,  and  never  find  such 
a  prop  as  this.  Of  course,  this  ain't  the  ori- 
ginal Yorick's  skull,  and  I'm  sorry  for  it,  but  it 
may  be  one  of  his  descendants.  He's  evidently 


64  Ywick's  Skull. 

a  Scandinavian,  judging  from  the  light  sandy 
hair  I  find  here." 

Griffith  took  possession  of  the  relic.  We 
camped  that  night  on  the  summit  of  Boulder 
Pass.  For  companionship  arid  comfort  the 
boys  selected  partners  who  slept  together.  With 
the  cautious  foresight  of  old  mountain  men, 
Griffith  and  Martin,  who  were  "  pards,"  stretched 
a  canvas  over  the  tongue  of  their  wagon  and 
enjoyed  the  protection  of  a  dog  tent.  Yorick's 
skull,  as  it  was  named,  was  placed  for  safety 
under  the  wagon  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
Yorick's  fate,  his  name,  and  all  pertaining  to 
his  history  was  the  subject  of  conjecture  around 
the  camp  fire  that  night,  until  by  a  natural  as- 
sociation of  ideas  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
and  a  future  life  became  the  topic  of  discussion. 
All  shades  of  belief,  from  certainty  of  a  life 
hereafter,  to  positive  materialism,  were  devel- 
oped. A  violent  theological  squabble  ensued, 
acrimonious  and  uncharitable,  as  such  discus- 
sions usually  are.  The  violent  and  dogmatic 
were,  as  is  generally  the  case,  ignorant  and 
positive.  They  mistook  their  bitter  prejudices 
for  arguments,  and  incoherent  howlings  for  un- 
answerable truths.  The  skull  lay  beneath  the 


Yorick's  Skull.  65 

wagon  grinning  at  them,  illumined  by  the 
camp  fire.  I  almost  expected  to  hear  a  sarcas- 
tic laugh,  and  a  hollow  voice  proceed  from  it 
saying :  "  Fools !  you  will  all  know  in  time !  " 
But  the  death's  head,  the  only  authority  that 
could  have  settled  the  argument,  was  silent, 
and  grinned  alike  at  wisdom  and  folly. 

Strange  to  say,  the  champion  who  was  certain 
of  his  immortality,  expressed  doubt  concerning 
the  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures.  Like  many 
others  who  babble  much,  for  and  against  thern^ 
he  had  never  read  them.  But  by  expressing 
doubt  he  left  his  argument,  and  himself  too, 
open  to  annihilation.  The  controversy  imme- 
diately dropped  from  the  etherial  heights  of 
immortality  to  dull  earth,  and  became  of  the 
earth,  earthy.  Mud  was  thrown,  verbal  mud 
of  course,  when  Martin,  by  the  power  in  him 
vested  as  Chief  Cook  and  Autocrat  of  the  camp, 
consequently  ex  officio  Speaker,  Chairman,  Mod- 
erator and  High-Muck-a-Muck,  arising  from  his 
throne,  (an  inverted  camp  kettle),  and  brandish- 
ing his  sceptre,  (a  soup  ladle),  shouted  "  Order ! 
This  theological  discussion  will  end  in  a  fight! 
You  may  hammer  the  devil  out  of  a  man,  but 
its  impossible  to  thump  brotherly  love  and  the 


66  Yorick's  Skull. 

gospel  of  peace  into  him.  As  a  stage  manager 
I  have  experienced  myself,  and  seen  in  others, 
considerable  confusion  of  thought,  but  this  con- 
troversy is  a  huckleberry  over  my  persimmon ; 
its  absolute  verbal  chaos !  You,"  he  continued, 
pointing  to  the  orator  who  felt  himself  to  be 
immortal,  "  doubt  the  Scriptures.  You  believe 
in  a  life  hereafter,  but  reject  the  only  proof  you 
have  of  it.  Immortality  can  only  be  proven  in 
two  ways.  A  man  you  know  to  be  dead  must 
return  to  you  alive — I  mean  you  individually, 
for  the  testimony  of  another  is  of  no  consequence. 
However  truthful  and  honest  he  may  be,  in 
this  matter  it  is  of  no  value.  The  departed  one 
must  prove  by  words  or  acts  that  he  is  alive — 
a  genuine  fact,  and  not  an  illusion;  or  you 
must  accept  as  truth  the  Book  which  declares 
life  everlasting  to  be  a  fact.  In  the  latter  case 
the  testimony  of  your  senses  cuts  no  figure,  for 
you  have  no  such  testimony — your  belief  rests 
on  faith.  No  dead  man  has  ever  returned  to 
tell  you,  or  perhaps  any  of  us,  the  secrets  of  the 
hereafter.  Should  Yorick  then,  at  this  mo- 
ment, open  his  mouth  to  enlighten  us,  the 
chances  are  that  those  of  us  who  did  not  drop 
dead  of  fright,  would  strike  out  for  tall  timber 


Foncf  a  SMI.  67 

without  waiting  to  hear  what  he  might  have  to 
say.  Thinking  as  you  do,  neither  logic,  induc- 
tion, analogy  or  deduction,  will  aid  you  or  any 
one  to  solve  this  problem,  unless  you  accept  the 
revealed  word,  for  without  it  you  have,  so  to 
speak,  no  solid  ground  whereon  to  plant  the  sole 
of  your  mental  foot.  All  arguments  outside  of 
it  amount  only  to  this :  ' All  peoples  in  all  ages 
hop©  for  and  expect  life  hereafter.  So  universal 
is  the  belief  that  the  soul  is  immortal,  that  it 
may  be  termed  a  law  inherent  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  human  mind.'  I  will  say  here,  that 
some  sceptics  might  insist  that,  before  you  pro- 
vide for  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  it  will  be 
needful  to  prove  you  have  a  soul.  Try  it  with- 
out the  aid  of  revelation  and  you  will  soon  dis- 
cover what  a  muddle  you  are  in.  But,  you  that 
insist  upon  the  passionate  desire  for  immor- 
tality, or  a  desire  to  live  hereafter,  as  being  an 
argument  in  favor  of  that  doctrine,  only  state 
one-half  of  the  true  proposition.  The  other 
half  is  this:  'The  love  of  life  and  horror  of 
death  is  inherent  not  only  in  man  but  the  lower 
animals.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  they 
suffer  death  to  escape  it.  While  man  has  a  hope 
amounting  to  conviction  of  life  beyond  the 


68  Yorick's  Skull 

grave,  nevertheless  he  will  suffer  untold  misery 
to  remain  in  this  life.  In  short  the  desire  to 
live  here,  in  more  or  less  pain,  misery,  and  dis- 
comfort, is  infinitely  greater  than  the  wish  for  a 
happy  hereafter.  Your  intense,  inherent  de- 
sire for  life  hereafter,  or  anything  else,  is  no 
proof  that  it  exists,  or  that  you  would  enjoy  it 
if  it  did.  I  frequently  have  an  ardent  desire  to 
fly,  but  that  don't  give  the  ability  to  do  it.  I'm 
not  built  that  way.  You  want  to  be  an  angel,  bat 
your  are  not  built  that  way,  if  you  rely  on  your 
present  argument  for  the  fact  You  have  the 
same  logical  grounds  for  thinking  that  because 
you  have  a  horror  of  death  you  will  not  die,  as 
you  have  for  believing  that  because  you  have 
an  ardent  desire  for  immortal  life  you  will  be 
immortal.  How  about  Moses?  In  his  legisla- 
tion he  says  nothing  about  isamortality.  He 
was  brought  up  by  Egyptians,  and  the  doctrine 
of  immortality  of  the  soul — not  only  of  man, 
but  of  cats  and  onions,  bugs,  birds  and  beasts — 
was  interwoven  with  the  customs  of  their  daily 
life.  I  don't  know  what  he  thought  on  the 
subject,  or  whether  he  thought  at  all.  Perhaps 
he  regarded  it  as  a  self-evident  truth  that  it 
would  be  absurd  to  mention.  We  don't  make 


Yorick's  Skull  69 

it  a  matter  of  solemn  record  that  the  sun  shines, 
that  water  is  wet,  that  fire  burns,  nor  did  Moses 
perhaps  lay  any  stress  on  a  doctrine  which  it  is 
possible  no  human  soul  in  his  age  ever  thought 
of  disputing.  The  belief  of  mankind  proves 
nothing  whatever.  Now,  fellers,  in  conclusion, 
as  it  is  perfectly  obvious  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about,  I  move  we  go  to  roost,  as 
this  train  will  have  to  be  rolling  at  daylight. 
Come,  Griffiths !  If  any  message  arrives  from 
the  other  world  via  Yorick's  skull  we  will  be 
the  first  to  hear  it,  and  we'll  enlighten  the 
community. 

The  full  moon  was  shining  with  a  radiance 
only  to  be  witnessed  in  the  clear  mountain  air, 
but  the  timber  on  the  peaks  miles  away  was 
afire,  while  the  blue  smoke  which  had  settled 
on  the  divide  and  in  the  valleys  created  a  weird 
vapory  effect  which  was  magical.  Objects  near 
at  hand  appeared  distorted,  while  those  further 
away  assumed  the  fantastic  shapes  peculiar  to 
the  mirage.  Soon  the  camp  was  wrapped  in 
slumber.  About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Martin  awoke  half  frozen.  His  faithful  partner 
Griffith,  by  a  gentle  rotary  movement  at  which 
he  was  an  adept,  had  appropriated  all  the 


70  YvrteVs  Skull 

blankets.  Seizing  the  bed  clothes  and  raising 
himself  on  his  elbow  preparatory  to  giving  a 
surge  which  would  have  stripped  Griffith,  he 
happened  to  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  foot  of 
the  bed;  there  in  the  misty  light  lay  the  skull 
with  its  cavernous  eyes  and  ghastly  grin  facing 
him ;  a  cricket  which  had  found  a  home  there, 
chirping  at  that  moment,  sent  a  cold  chill 
through  him.  Looking  further,  in  a  direct  line 
from  the  death  head  about  a  hundred  yards 
away,  as  near  as  could  be  judged  by  the  strug- 
gling moonlight,  was  the  figure  of  a  man  ob- 
scurely visible.  Martin  thought  at  first  it  was 
one  of  the  party,  but  when  he  came  out  from 
beneath  his  shelter  and  stood  erect,  the  man,  or 
whatever  it  may  have  been,  had  disappeared. 
Thinking  he  might  have  been  mistaken  he 
crawled  into  the  dog  tent  again,  when  behold ! 
the  object  again  appeared.  He  glanced  at  the 
skull ;  the  stereotyped  smile  seemed  to  broaden, 
while  the  cricket  in  a  murmuring  chirp  seemed 
to  chuckle  at  the  ghostly  joke.  As  Martin  de- 
scribed it,  a  sort  of  electric  chill — a  compound 
of  the  shock  of  a  battery  and  a  shower  bath — 
paralyzed  him  for  a  moment.  Closer  inspection 
revealed  the  fact  that  the  man  appeared  to  be 


Yaridts  SMI.  71 

standing  with  his  legs  wide  apart,  his  arms  ex- 
tended and  somewhat  upraised,  as  if  hurling  an 
anathema,  but  his  head  was  wanting.  In  a  sort 
of  desperation  he  seized  his  pistol  and  crawled 
out  again,  but  the  instant  he  stood  erect  the 
phantom  vanished.  Fully  convinced  that 
Yorick  had  come  back  after  his  skull,  he  was 
about  to  invite  him  to  advance  and  take  it,  when 
the  suspicion  of  appearances,  characteristic  of 
men  who  have  been  much  on  the  frontier  and  in 
hostile  Indian  countries — and  Martin  had  been 
many  years  there — restrained  him.  Horse 
thieves  or  Indians  might  be  prowling  around 
and  he  determined  to  reconnoitre.  In  his  ex- 
cited condition  it  would  have  been  scarcely 
healthy  for  any  one,  friend  or  foe,  to  have  come 
on  him  suddenly,  as  he  would  certainly  kave 
shot  him.  After  a  careful  survey  nothing 
nearer  human  than  a  mule  was  found,  and  he 
returned  in  a  very  perturbed  state  of  mind. 
As  he  stood  near  the  skull,  a  wolf  on  an  adjacent 
rock  gave  a  piercing  howl,  which  for  the  mo- 
ment seemed  to  proceed  from  Yorick's  lips. 
The  cayotes  took  up  the  cry  and  far  in  the  dis- 
tance the  dismal  melody  echoed  and  re-echoed 
through  the  mountains.  Horrors  began  to 


72  Yorick's  Skull. 

accumulate.  A  lonely  owl  joined  in  the  chorus 
with  his  melancholy  hooting.  "Well,  this 
beats  hell  a  mile,"  ejaculated  the  sentinel. 
"What's  that  ?  "  said  a  hollow  voice  which  ap- 
peared to  issue  from  the  skull  under  the  wagon. 
It  was  Griffith  whom  the  cayotes  had  awakened. 
"I'll  tell  you,"  replied  Martin  as  he  crawled  in 
under  the  dog  tent.  No  sooner  had  he  reached 
the  couch  than  the  "spook"  appeared. 

"Griffith,  look  out  under  the  wagon  and  tell 
me  whether  you  can  see  anything?" 

He  did  as  desired.  "Yes!  I  see  some  one 
standing  out  there." 

"  What's  he  doing  ?"     asked  Martin. 

"  Nothing  except  holding  out  his  arms  and  " 
— He  suddenly  stopped.  His  eyes  seemed  ready 
to  burst  out  of  their  sockets.  Without  remov- 
ing them  from  the  object  of  his  gaze  he  began 
to  feel  around  for  his  pistol. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me,"  replied 
Grffith,  "but  that  fellow  out  there's  got  no 
head!  I'll  be  blowed  if  it  aint  Yorick !" 

"You're  shouting,"  gasped  Martin.  "He's 
come  back  after  his  head ! " 

"  By  thunder,  he  won't  get  it,"  muttered  Grif- 


ick's  Skull  73 

fith   grabbing   his   pistol.     "  I  want  it  in  my 
business  worse  than  he  does." 

"  Whenever  I  go  to  look  for  him  he  vanishes," 
said  Martin.  "See  if  you  have  any  better 
luck."  Griffith  went  outside,  but  the  goblin 
disappeared  as  before. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed  when  he  returned,  "  I 
don't  believe  in  ghosts,  but  this  lays  over  any- 
thing I  ever  saw." 

"It's  an  optical  illusion,  or  else  a  mental  de- 
lusion," replied  Martin,  "  and  taken  in  connec- 
tion with  that  skull,  if  I  was  here  alone  I  don't 
think  my  sand  would  hold  out  long  enough  for 
me  to  investigate  the  phenomenon,  but  as  I 
have  a  company  at  my  back,  if  he,  she,  it,  or 
whatever  the  dickens  it  is,  should  lock  horns 
with  me,  come  to  my  rescue  before  it  walks  my 
log.  Griffith,  sit  on  the  bed  while  I  walk  out 
in  the  direction  of  the  mysterious  visitor."  As 
before,  the  goblin  vanished  when  he  started 
for  it. 

"Do  you  see  him,  Griffith?" 

"Yes." 

'•Has  he  moved?" 

"  No." 


74  Yorick's  Skull 

"  I  can't  see  hide  nor  hair  of  him,"  continued 
Martin.  "  Am  I  in  a  line  with  him? " 

"Yes,  keep  straight  ahead,  your  going  for 
him."  Martin  continued  on  until  Griffith 
shouted,  "  YouVe  got  him !  He's  right  in,  front 
of  you!" 

As  Martin  confessed,  when  he  heard  this  an- 
nouncement, his  heart  almost  quit  work  and 
his  lungs  were  seized  with  ague.  With  revolver 
on  full  cock  he  looked  cautiously  around  but 
could  see  no  one,  although  the  foggy  light  gave 
the  shrubs  and  rocks  a  weird  unnatural  ap- 
pearance; nothing  like  a  headless  man  was  ap- 
parent. 

"  I  can't  see  anyone,"  shouted  Martin. 

"  He's  there  beside  you !  "   returned  Griffith. 

"Is  this  him?"  replied  Martin,  pointing  to 
two  small  trees  near  at  hand. 

"That's  him." 

"Griffith,  come  here,"  shouted  Martin.  Grif- 
fith came  clad  in  the  picturesque  costume  of 
an  ancient  Roman  citizen — a  short  shirt  and  a 
pair  of  slippers. 

"  Make  a  note  of  this  on  the  tablets  of  your 
memory,"  said  Martin. 

"  While  memory  holds  her  seat  in  this  dis- 


Yorick's  SMI.  75 

tracted  globe,  I  shall  not  forget  to  remember 
it,"  he  replied. 

"  These  unconscious  trees  are  Yorick's  ghost, 
the  first  and  last  ghost  you  will  probably  ever 
see." 

Two  small  trees  had  grown  across  each  other, 
•which  formed  the  illusion  of  the  legs,  two 
branches  on  either  side  represented  the  out- 
stretched arms,  their  tops  had  been  broken  off, 
and  thus  the  head  of  the  phantom  was  want- 
ing. When  we  were  lying  down  the  shrubs 
were  directly  on  the  line  of  sight  and  really 
had  some  resemblance  to  a  human  figure ; 
when  we  stood  up  and  looked  over  them  the 
ghostly  effect  vanished.  We  returned  to  our 
dog  tent,  the  moon  was  just  sinking  behind 
the  mountains,  and  the  darkness  which  pre- 
ceded the  morning  was  falling.  I  cast  a  glance 
at  the  skull,  the  white  teeth  shone  in  the  un- 
certain light,  and  the  broad  grin  fixed  forever, 
seemed  to  emphasize  the  joke  that  our  imagina- 
tion had  played  us. 

A  few  years  later  thegreater  portion  of  this 
company  became  members  of  the  stock  com- 
pany at  Wood's  museum,  Chicago,  Griffith  and 
the  skull  among  the  number.  It  is  a  custom 


76  Yoriek's  SMI 

among  property  men  in  the  different  theatres 
to  help  each  other  out  by  lending  and  borrow- 
ing. In  this  way  the  skull  did  duty  whenever 
Hamlet  was  played  in  Chicago.  Davenport, 
Barrett  and  Booth  in  turn  patted  the  bony  pate 
of  the  Montana  Yorick,  and  pointed  to  the 
teeth  "where  hung  those  lips  that  I  have 
kissed,  I  know  not  how  often,"  and  told  how 
"  he  hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a  thousand 
times,"  and  asked,  "where  be  thy  jibes  now?" 
Could  each  have  known  the  history  of  that 
"  prop,"  how  interesting  it  would  have  been  to 
have  had  each  pen  the  inner  thoughts  that 
stirred  him  as  busy  fancy  conjured  up  a  story 
of  its  life  and  death.  Perhaps  when  Booth 
"played  at  loggats"  with  that  grinning  skull, 
some  fond  mother,  thousands  of  miles  away, 
was  watching,  waiting  and  praying  for  that 
wayward  boy,  who  left  her  in  a  fit  of  passion, 
and  perished  at  the  hands  of  murdering  sav- 
ages, before  sending  one  word  of  tenderness  or 
contrition.  When  matchless  Davenport  kissed 
the  cold  ivory  of  those  teeth,  perhaps  in  a 
quiet  home  in  some  New  England  village,  a 
pale  wife,  kneeling  at  the  bed  side  was  holding 
together  two  chubby  hands  and  teaching  two 


Yorick's  Skull.  77 

baby  lips  to  lisp :  "0  God,  dear  God,  please  send 
my  papa  back  again."  When  Barrett  stared 
into  the  crumbling  cavities  through  which  there 
once  had  looked  a  soul,  and  wondered  whether 
Alexander  "  smelt  so,"  perhaps  in  some  modest 
home  across  the  seas  a  bethrothed  wife  watched 
for  a  form  that  would  come  no  more,  and  listened 
for  a  step  that  had  crossed  the  trackless  river, 
while  seeking  in  the  new  world  for  fame  and 
fortune  with  which  to  crown  his  bride. 

Then  came  the  great  Chicago  fire,  and  Yorick's 
skull  was  destroyed  in  the  theatre.  Certainly 
no  fiction  could  be  stranger  than  the  fact  that , 
while  the  body  of  the  unknown  was  consumed 
in  the  wilds  of  Montana,  the  skull,  the  throne 
of  reason,  should  be  reserved  for  cremation  in 
the  greatest  conflagration  the  civilized  world 
has  ever  known. 


HARD  TIMES. 


ARD  TIMES!"  exclaimed  the  lead- 
ing man.  "  The  hardest  times  any 
of  you  ever  encountered  were  sea- 
sons of  profusion  and  prodigal  waste  compared 
to  an  experience  I  was  the  victim  of  many 
moons  ago.  I  had  just  emerged  from  the 
humble  grub  "Bootjack"  into  the  gorgeous  but- 
e  terfly  "Walking  Gent"— 

"No  Walking  Gents  now,"  murmured  the 
Comedian,  "all  Juveniles  and  Leading  Men." 
"  Correct !  Utility  men !  By  all  the  Gods,  the 
race  is  so  entirely  extinct  that  not  even  a  fossil 
is  left.  But,"  continued  the  speaker,  address- 
ing the  Comedian,  "in  all  your  peregrinations 
over  this  sublunary  sphere,  you  have,  of  course, 
endured  the  felicity  of  having  a  landlord  be- 
come so  infatuated  with  your  effects  as  to  de- 
clare an  attachment  for  your  trunks.  You 
have  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  traveling  "tandem" 
one  foot  before  the  other  over  the  unconscious 


Hard  Times.  79 

sleepers  of  a  railroad  track.  You  have  had  the 
snide  manager  evaporate,  while  the  "mourners 
went  about  the  streets."  You  have  been  broke 
— in  fact  you've  never  been  otherwise.  But 
you  know  nothing  of  hard  times,  nor  can  you 
know,  until  I  relate  what  befell  myself  and 
sundry  companions  in  misfortune  in  the  winter 
of  1860-61,  at  Central  City,  Colorado. 

There  was  a  large  dramatic  company,  a 
variety  company,  a  minstrel  company,  and 
enough  "tan  bouncers"  to  make  a  fair  circus, 
caught  without  a  dollar  in  the  bowels  of  the 
mountains,  six  hundred  miles  from  a  railroad 
or  navigable  stream,  with  a  frozen  desert  and 
at  least  three  blood-thirsty  tribes  of  real  old- 
time  Indians  between  them  and  the  States. 

Incidentally  we  had  gon«  there  to  pursue  our 
various  professions.  Primarily,  to  dig  for  gold. 
Digging  for  gold  is  one  thing,  and  finding  it  is 
another.  We  tried  on  Clear  Creek,  Spanish 
Bar,  Boulder  and  elsewhere,  but  failed  to  con- 
nect. The  good  mines  were  very  few,  I  mean 
placers.  This  was  before  the  great  Lode  mines 
were  discovered,  or  at  least  worked.  The  whole 
country  was  broke — there  was  no  such  thing  as 
show  business.  The  entire  crowd  were  penni- 


80  Hard  Times. 

less,  provisionless,  and  would  have  been  house- 
less, if  Bill  Norwood,  stage  carpenter  of  the  old 
National  Theatre  and  a  good  Comedian  be- 
sides, had  not  discovered  two  miners  from  his 
town,  Baltimore,  who  were  going  down  to 
Mexico  for  the  winter.  They  let  him  have  a  large 
cabin.  Bill  put  up  about  thirty  bunks  and  in- 
vited the  crowd  to  come  in.  The  ladies  of  the 
companies  were  either  sent  to  the  States  or 
comfortably  provided  for  elsewhere.  The  in- 
vitation was  unanimously  accepted.  The  actor 
and  the  acrobat,  the  minstrel  and  variety  man, 
all  laid  down  together,  in  a  delightfully  lion 
and  the  lamb  sort  of  a  manner.  But  there  was 
not  five  dollars  in  the  crowd.  We  had  shelter, 
but  no  larder.  The  ^establishment  was  christ- 
ened the  Chatew  De  Grab,  with  the  sub-title  of 
"Tough  Times  Ranch."  Of  those  who  wintered 
there,  the  majority  have  joined  the  great  ma- 
jority across  the  dark  river — rest  their  souls, 
I  hope  they've  found  a  brighter  shore.  There 
was: 

Harry  B.  Norman, 

Sam  D.  Hunter, 

Mike  J.  Dougherty, 

James  C.  Whitall,  and 


Hard  Times.  81 

John  Jack,  not  the  talented  representative  of 
Falstaff,  but  another  man,  only  known  to  the 
far  West.  Originally  he  was  a  Missouri  river 
pilot  and  personally  was  a  great  character,  as 
he  was  excellent  as  a  peculiar  character  actor. 
There  was  also  Dick  Wilmot,  Ind,  Carter,  and 
others,  that  I  know  are  dead.  Chas,  H.  Irving, 
Geo.  Pardey  and  Harry  Collins,  I  believe,  are 
alive.  I  am  certain  Jas.  M.  Martin,  known  in 
the  Western  camps  as  Jimmi  Martin,  is,  as  I 
met  him  recently  on  the  square.  Tom  Duncan, 
a  minstrel,  was  living  in  St.  Joe,  Mo.  All  the 
rest  are  scattered  or  gone. 

As  I  said,  we  had  no  provisions,  neither  had 
we  the  wherewithal  to  purchase  the  same.  Lunch 
routes  were  unknown,  store-keepers  lacked  con- 
fidence in  our  ability  to  pay.  A  crisis  came. 
The  problem  was,  "  die  dog  or  eat  a  hatchet." 
It  was  a  case  of  starve  or  forage.  We  decided 
to  forage.  Particular  people  characterized  our 
conduct  by  another  name.  Let  moralists  ex- 
perience the  anguish  of  such  total  abstinence 
as  we  suffered  for  a  few  days,  before  they  begin 
to  fire  cobble  stones. 

Necessity  developed  the  highest  order  of  in- 
ventive genius.  Chickens  and  ducks  wandered 


82  Hard  Times. 

around  the  camp,  but  it  wouldn't  do  to  capture 
them  in  broad  daylight.  Their  cries,  if  we 
laid  violent  hands  on  them  at  night  might  re- 
sult seriously.  But  science  surmounted  ob- 
stacles. The  weather  was  cold,  the  poultry 
lodged  in  trees.  Two  holes  were  bored  in  the 
ends  of  a  light  plank  and  two  long  poles  in- 
serted in  them.  The  board  was  then  heated 
before  the  fire.  Two  of  our  number,  usually 
Martin  and  Duncan,  who  were  light  and  active, 
would  emerge  at  midnight,  bearing  aloft  the 
hot  plank.  This  they  hoisted  beneath  the 
limb  on  which  the  slumbering  poultry  perched. 
The  grateful  heat  would  inveigle  the  confiding 
birds  from  the  cold  limb  to  the  comfortable 
plank.  In  a  moment  they  would  be  asleep 
again.  The  marauders  would  quietly  march 
away  bearing  their  trophies  aloft  in  triumph. 
In  the  sanctuary  of  the  Chateau  the  spoil  was 
dispatched,  the  feathers  and  compromising  evi- 
dences cremated,  and  the  feast  prepared. 

"  Nothing  very  tough  about  that,"  remarked 
the  Lyceum  man.  "  You  never  tackled  those 
chickens.  People  took  to  locking  up  their 
feathered  stock  of  nights  and  we  were  reduced 
almost  to  the  verge  of  cannibalism,  when  a 


Hard  Times.  83 

positive  inspiration  entered  the  brain  of  Charley 
Irving.  The  fowls  roamed  at  large  during  the 
day.  A  hook  and  stout  fishing  line  were  pro- 
vided, the  hook  was  baited  with  meat.  John 
Jack,  being  a  sailor  man,  was  entrusted  with 
the  practical  application  of  the  great  discovery. 
He  cast  the  baited  hook  into  the  back  yard,  or 
wherever  a  chicken  or  duck  appeared.  The 
guileless  fowl  would  gobble  the  bait,  the  man 
at  the  line  jerked,  the  prey  was  hooked,  hauled 
into  the  cabin  and  sacrificed.  But  man  cannot 
live  on  meat  alone;  he  must  have  bread. 
There  was  but  one  way  to  get  it — raid  the 
bakers'  ovens.  They  were  there  built  outside 
the  shops.  Norwood  was  selected  for  this  des- 
perate work,  because  he  was  a  thumper  from 
the  old  house,  and  could  prevail  by  mere  force 
of  arms.  Norm,  and  Hunter  were  detailed,  on 
account  of  superior  eloquence  and  address,  to 
amuse  the  victim  in  his  shop  while  Norwood 
performed  the  confiscation  act.  He  did  his 
work  conscientiously  and  well — the  whole  batch, 
an  entire  oven  full,  often  rewarded  his  labor. 
The  rear  and  knees  of  his  pantaloons  often 
melted  off  through  the  fervent  heat  of  the  inte- 
rior of  the  oven.  But  we  got  our  daily  bread. 


84  Hard  Times. 

When  spring  came  the  owners  of  the  cabin 
returned.  - 

"  How  have  you  fared  ?  "  they  asked. 

"  Very  rocky ;  been  broke  all  winter,"  we  re- 
plied. 

"  You'r  foolish !  Why  didn't  you  make  a 
raise?" 

"  Where  could  we  make  a  raise?"  we  asked. 

"  Here,"  replied  one  of  them,  seizing  a  shovel 
and  digging  down  beside  the  earthen  fireplace. 
In  a  minute  he  hauled  out  two  large  oyster  cans 
filled  with  gold  dust,  which  they  had  hidden 
there  before  they  had  departed. 

A  dismal  howl  shook  the  roof  of  the  cabin. 

Some  fell  back  in  their  bunks  and  fainted. 

Talk  of  hard  luck!  II 


PENALTY  BLOGG8. 


F  course,  you  know  Bloggs;  everybody 
knows  Bloggs — that  is,  everybody 
who  is  anybody.  Bloggs  is  the  man 
who  knows  everybody  who  is  anything  of  a 
celebrity,  and  who  slaps  you  familiarly  on  the 
back,  and  calls  you  by  your  first  naire  on  the 
slightest  provocation.  Bloggs  in  the  abstract 
is  to  be  found  in  any  community  of  three 
thousand  or  more.  Bloggs  is  at  his  best  in 
small  towns,  for  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that 
small  communities  can  afford  but  one  of  him, 
and  he  flourishes  by  reason  of  his  singularity. 
The  particular  edition  of  Bloggs  now  under 
consideration  I  met  in  a  small  Texas  town, 
some  years  ago.  He  was  on  the  platform  at 
the  station  as  the  train  pulled  in,  and  by  his 
general  air  of  bustle  and  officiousness  impressed 
me  as  being  at  least  a  division  superintendent. 
He  smiled  affably  as  I  passed  to  a  carriage, 
opened  the  door  pompously,  asked,  calling  me 


86  Penalty  Bloggs. 

by  name,  to  what  hotel  I  was  going,  gave  orders 
to  the  driver,  arid  then  rushed  over  and  grabbed 
the  conductor  by  the  hand,  slapped  him  on  the 
back,  said  something  evidently  amusing,  as  he 
laughed  very  loudly  himself,  although  the  con- 
ductor didn't  seem  particularly  impressed.  I 
was  not  sure  then  whether  he  was  division 
superintendent  or  only  station  agent.  I  had 
scarcely  written  my  name  on  the  hotel  register 
when  Bloggs  swelled  in.  He  posed  gracefully 
against  a  corner  of  the  counter,  cast,  an  eye  over 
the  signature,  and  just  missed  the  cuspidor  with 
such  remnants  of  a  mouthful  of  tobacco  juice 
as  escaped  his  shirt  and  vest  in  transit,  Then 
he  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  the  clerk,  who 
was  trying  to  room  me.  No,  T  thought,  he  is 
not  a  railroad  man;  he-  is  proprietor  of  the 
hotel,  and  he  is  telling  the  clerk  to  give  me  the 
bridal  chamber.  "Front,"  said  the  clerk, 
"  twenty-six." 

Turning  as  T  reached  the  stairs,  I  discovered 
that  my  exit  was  followed  by  the  amiable 
smile  and  watery  eyes  of  Bloggs. 

Descending  to  the  office  a  half  hour  later  I 
discovered  that  Bloggs  was  still  there.  He  was 
leaning  against  the  cigar  stand  talking  to  the 


Penalty  Bloggs,  87 

newsboy.  Yes,  I  thought,  T  was  right,  he  is 
the  proprietor,  or  at  least  partner,  or  manager 
of  the  hotel.  Bloggs  "set"  me  the  moment  I 
entered,  and  smiled  affably.  I  nodded,  and 
passed  some  remark  about  the  weather.  That 
was  enough  for  Bloggs,  and  it  was  the  one 
thing,  as  I  soon  learned,  which  I  should  not 
have  done.  Bloggs  grasped  me  by  the  hand 
effusively ;  then  he  slapped  me  on  the  back  and 
whispered  something  in  my  ear,  intended,  I 
suppose,  to  be  funny,  for  he  laughed  a  long, 
loud  laugh,  ending  with  a  cough.  By  this 
time  T  had  discovered  that  in  the  matter  of 
strength  it  was  a  stand-off  between  his  grip  and 
his  breath.  Before  I  could  protest  he  had 
yanked  me  around  the  office  and  introduced 
me  by  name  to  five  or  six  people.  Then  he 
pulled  me  into  the  private  office  and  intro- 
duced me  to  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel.  When 
I  discovered  that  Bloggs  was  not  the  proprietor, 
I  concluded  that  he  must  be  the  mayor  of  the 
town,  or  at  least  city  marshal.  The  manager 
of  the  opera  house  entered  the  office,  but  before 
he  could  reach  the  register  Bloggs  had  pulled 
me  up  in  front  of  him  and  introduced  me  after 
this  fashion  :  "  Walker,  this  is  my  friend  Nobles 


88  Penalty  Bloggs. 

— noble  by  name,  noble  by  nature."  I  had 
been  listening  to  this  wretched  attempt  at  a  pun 
for  so  many  years  by  men  of  the  Bloggs  calibre 
that  I  knew  instinctively  he  was  going  to  say 
it  and  was  prepared,  as  usual,  to  ignore  it,  but 
Bloggs  felt  that  he  had  made  a  ten  strike,  and 
he  laughed  a  loud  and  fragrant  laugh.  Walker 
called  me  aside  to  talk  business  of  a  private 
nature,  but  a  little  thing  like  that  had  no  effect 
upon  Bloggs.  As  we  sat  down  Bloggs  stood 
familiarly  in  front  of  us,  interjecting  comments 
and  witticisms  at  regular  intervals.  Walker 
suggested  an  adjournment  to  the  bar;  this 
caused  Bloggs  to  positively  glow  with  amiabil- 
ity, and  as  we  started  he  wrung  in  one  to  the 
effect  that  he  had  "quit,  drinking — in  a  meas- 
ure." On  the  strength  of  the  laugh  with  which 
he  accompanied  this  ancient  gem,  we  were 
wafted  gently  to  the  bar.  I  observed  that 
Bloggs  took  it  straight,  and  in  sufficient  quant- 
ity to  show  that  he  wasn't  afraid  of  it.  He  also 
smiled  affably  at  the  barkeeper  and  called  him 
by  his  first  name.  I  thought  the  barkeeper 
did  not  seem  to  pay  that  deference  to  Bloggs 
due  to  the  mayor  or  city  marshal,  and  I  fancied 
that  Walker  made  no  special  effort  to  be  enter- 


Penalty  Bloggs.  89 

taining.  Walker  drew  me  aside  for  a  moment, 
Presently  a  group  of  gentlemen  entered,  and 
before  they  had  time  to  decline,  Bloggs  had 
grabbed  each  effusively  by  the  hand,  rushed 
him  over  and  introduced  me,  calling  me  famil- 
iarly "Nobles,"  or  "Milt."  Bloggs  never 
missed  a  round,  and  I  also  noticed  the  regular- 
ity with  which  he  failed  to  "shout"  when  his 
turn  came,  but,  glass  in  hand,  endeavored  to 
get  into  the  crowd  and  join  in  the  conversation. 
But  the  gentlemen  seemed  to  ignore  his  exist- 
ence. Still,  in  spite  of  what  appeared  to  me  a 
studied  slight,  Bloggs  maintaiujd  his  good 
humor,  occasionally  threw  in  a  verbal  gem  over 
the  backs  of  the  party,  and  then  laughed  long 
and  loud,  and  looked  over  in  our  direction  to 
let  us  see  that  they  were  having  a  "hell-roaring" 
time.  Presently  the  party,  lifting  their  hats, 
withdrew.  Bloggs  followed  to  the  door,  which 
was  accidentally  allowed  to  bang  in  his  face. 
Bloggs  opened  it  unconcernedly,  waved  his 
hand  and  yelled,  "So  long,  boys,"  then  swelled 
across  the  room  to  entertain  us.  He  apologized 
for  leaving  us,  but  said  his  old  friends  would 
have  felt  hurt  if  he  hadn't  joined  them,  and 
then  insisted  on  taking  me  over  to  the  City 


90  Penalty  Bloggs. 

Hall  and  introducing  me  to  his  old  friend,  the 
mayor.  So,  after  all,  I  thought,  Bloggs  is  only 
city  marshal,  or  may  be  clerk  of  the  district 
court.  I  pleaded  other  business,  and  Bloggs 
said  he  must  give  me  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  his  old  friend  Col.  Tom  Ochiltree,  of  Galves- 
ton,  and  then  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  how  often 
himself  and  "Col.  Tom"  had  incarnadined  the 
walls  and  fences  of  the  Texas  metropolis.  He 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  the  last  letter  he  had 
from  the  Colonel,  but  said  he  must  have  left  it 
home  on  the  piano.  Then  he  told  me  how  he 
had  made  it  lively  for  his  old  friends  Billy 
Florence  and  Fred.  Warde  in  Dallas  once. 
"Just  say  'Bloggs — Dallas'  to  Florence,  and  see 
what  he  will  say."  Then  he  slapped  us  both 
on  the  back  and  laughed  until  he  coughed  in 
our  faces.  By  this  time  Bloggs  had  made  an 
impression  upon  me  that  I  shall  carry  through 
life.  The  impression  was  not  so  much  upon 
the  sense  of  reason  as  of  olfaction.  The  bare 
remembrance  of  those  outward  manifestations 
of  internal  decay  fill  me  with  feelings  more  of 
sorrow  than  of  anger. 

The  offence  to  my  nostrils  I  could  have  en- 
dured in  silence,  but  this  thing  hurt  my  eyes. 


Penalty  Btoggs.  91 

Two  gentlemen  entering  the  bar  rushed  Bloggs 
for  them,  intending,  doubtless,  to  introduce 
them,  but  Walker  quickly  pulled  me  through  a 
side  door,  and  so  we  escaped  to  the  main  hall 
and  hurried  off  to  my  room.  Once  safely  inside 
with  the  door  locked,  Walker  asked  : 

"  Where  did  Penalty  strike  you  ?  " 

"  Where  did  who  strike  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  Penalty— Penalty  Bloggs." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "the  man  with  the  aromatic 
respiration  and  the  agricultural  fingernails?" 

"Exactly,"  replied  Walker. 

"  He  was  at  the  depot  when  I  arrived  and  in 
the  hotel  as  soon  as  I  was.  What  is  he,  town 
marshal  ?  " 

"What!  Bloggs!  Town  Marshal!  Why, 
that  fellow  never  did  an  honest  day's  work  in 
his  life.  He  blew  in  here  from  Indiana  with 
the  carpet-baggers  just  after  the  war.  He 
tried  to  run  the  town  for  about  a  month,  but 
he  was  not  long  in  finding  his  level.  Then  he 
married  a  soldier's  widow  who  keeps  a  rail- 
roader^ boarding  house  down  by  the  depot, 
and  he  has  been  living  off  her  ever  since." 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  Penalty  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  Bloggs  has  a  weakness  for 


92  Penalty  Bloggs. 

celebrities.  Actor,  railroad  magnate,  bishop 
or  baseball  player  are  all  meat  for  Bloggs. 
One  summer  a  temperance  lecturer  dropped  in 
on  us.  A  temperance  lecturer  is  pretty  small 
game,  but  it  was  the  dull  season,  and  every- 
thing goes  with  Bloggs.  After  the  lecture, 
which  took  place  in  the  basement  of  the  Pres- 
byterian Church,  several  leading  citizens  and 
church  members  remained  to  congratulate  the 
lecturer.  Bloggs  hadn't  been  able  to  beat  his 
way  in,  but  he  was  on  hand  for  the  congratula- 
tions. He  pushed  through  the  crowd,  grabbed 
the  lecturer  by  the  hand,  put  an  arm  around 
his  neck  and  told  him  that  his  lecture  was 
equal  to  his  dear  old  friend  Gough's.  Then  he 
wrung  his  hand  and  told  one  of  Gough's  funny 
old  chestnuts  and  laughed  until  he  coughed. 
The  cough  hit  the  lecturer  full  in  the  face  and 
he  fainted.  Bloggs  evidently  thought  he  had 
killed  his  man,  for  he  slipped  out,  and  when 
the  lecturer  recovered  he  looked  about  wildly 
for  a  moment,  then  he  gasped  and  then  sneezed. 
The  mayor  helped  him  to  a  chair,  and  looking 
about  inquiringly,  the  lecturer  asked  if  the 
storm  was  over,  and  whether  that  clap  struck 
the  assafetida  works  or  only  the  guano  factory. 


Penalty  Bloggs.  93 

Then  the  mayor  explained  to  him  Bloggs' 
great  weakness  for  public  men  and  his  great 
strength  in  the  other  direction.  ( Oh,  I  see/ 
said  the  lecturer, '  Bloggs  is  one  of  the  penalties 
of  fame.'  '  Exactly/  said  the  mayor,  and  Bloggs 
has  been  called  Penalty  ever  since," 


THE  ISAACS-CRUMMELS'  BOOM. 


COMPILED  FROM  DOCUMENTARY  EVIDENCE. 


[Advertisement  from  New  Yorlc  Herald,  May  5, 1885.} 

A  YOUNG,  GIFTED  AND  BEAUTIFUL  SOUTHERN  BELLE, 
**  descended  from  an  aristocratic  Georgia  family,  having  met 
with  unexpected  reverses,  baa  determined  upon  adopting  the 
dramatic  profession  as  a  means  whereby  to  retrieve  the  shat- 
tered fortunes  of  her  honorable  family,  elevate  the  stage,  and 
utilize  those  God-given  histrionic  powers  which  her  friends  fewl 
assured  she  possesses  in  an  eminent  degree.  Responsible 
managers,  with  capital,  desiring  an  attraction  for  the  comingr 
season,  may  address  MAMIE  CRUMMELS, 

847V4  Lexington  ave.  (over  Drug  Store) 

[Advertisement  from  the  Weekly  Blast.  May  S8, 1885] 

A  BE  ISAACS,  YE  WORKING*  AGENT  AND   PRES3-MANIP 

**•  ulator.  disengaged.  Bil^evilte  correspondent  Weekly  Slant 
Address  this  office  after  June  1st. 

[  Weekly  Blast,  June  4  ] 

We  desire  to  call  the  attention  of  managers 
to  the  card  of  the  new  and  brilliant  star,  Miss 
Mamie  Crummels  This  lady  comes  of  a  wealthy 
California  family,  and  has  recently  returned 
from  Europe,  where  she  has  undergone  three 
years'  severe  study  under  French,  Italian  and 
English  masters.  Who  will  be  the  lucky  man- 
ager to  secure  her? 


The  Isaacs-  Grummels'  Boom.  95 

[Weekly  Blast,  June  ^.] 

That  shrewd  and  energetic  manager,  Abe 
Isaacs,  is  looking  about  for  a  strong  attraction 
for  next  season.  It  is  whispered  Abe  has  his 
eye  on  the  beautiful  young  society  star, 
Mamie  Crummels.  This  would  make  a  strong 
team! 

[New  York  Correspondence  Bilgeville  (Iowa)  Breakwater, 
June  8]. 

I  yesterday  met  on  Union  Square  that  hand- 
some and  popular  young  Bilgeville  boy,  Abe 
Isaacs.  Abe  is  being  lionized  by  the  theatrical 
profession  here,  among  whom  he  is  very  pop- 
ular, having  been  for  some  time  the  Bilgeville 
correspondent  of  the  Blast,  the  principal  theat- 
rical journal.  Abe  had  no  sooner  arrived  in 
New  York  than  he  was  besieged  on  all  sides  by 
managers  urging  him  to  manage  leading  com- 
binations. Abe  said  nothing,  but  kept  his  eyes 
and  ears  open,  and  while  three  other  managers 
were  outbidding  each  other  for  the  new  society 
star,  Mamie  Crummels,  Abe  quietly  slips  in  and 
secures  the  prize.  Miss  Oummels  is  to  be  con- 
gratulated. Abe  is  a  "  boomer." 


The  Isaacs- Crummels'  Boom.  97 

[  Weekly  Blast,  June  8,  Editorial.] 
We  call  the  attention  of  managers  to  the 
mammoth  full  page  advertisement  (with  por- 
trait of  Manager  Abe  Isaacs),  announcing  his 
engagement  of  the  peerless  Mamie  Crummels. 
This  company  will  take  the  road  in  August, 
playing  the  Western  and  Southern  circuits. 
Mr.  Isaacs  is  negotiating  with  several  New  York 
managers  for  spring  dates.  Abe  is  getting  out 
a  magnificent  stock  of  lithographic  printing 
through  the  well-known  house  of  Ketchum  & 
Holdem.  Brains,  money  and  energy  will  win 
every  time.  Abe  will  wake  up  some  of  our 
Rip  Van  Winkle  managers. 

We  present  this  week  an  admirable  likeness 
of  the  brainy  manager,  Abe  Isaacs,  as  he  may 
any  day  be  seen  at  his  office  on  Twelfth  street, 
working  up  the  approaching  tour  of  his  star, 
Mamie  Crummels. 

[Weekly  Blast,  June  11.} 

The  beautiful  society  star,  Mamie  Crummels, 
is  quite  ill  at  her  exquisitely  furnished  flat  on 
Lexington  avenue.  Abe  Isaacs,  her  tireless 
manager,  says  it  is  prostration  from  over-excite- 
ment in  recently  rescuing  the  child  of  a  poor 


98  The  Isaacs- Grummets'  Boom. 

family  whose  life  was  endangered  by  a  runaway 

Bleeker  street  car. 

*  * 
* 

{Long  Branch  Correspondence  New  York  Courier , 
June  12, .] 

The  great  emotional  actress,  Mamie  Crum- 
mels,  wears  a  unique  and  striking  tight-fitting 
bathing  suit  of  pink  and  olive-green.  Her  ex- 
quisite figure  is  much  admired.  She  was  vis- 
ited yesterday  by  her  wide-awake  manager, 

Abe  Isaacs. 

*  * 

* 

[From  the  New  York  Correspondence  ef  the  Penn  Yan 
Bladder.] 

Miss  Mamie  Crummels,  the  famed  emotional 
artiste,  yesterday  rescued  three  children  from 
drowning  at  Coney  Island,  On  the  same  even- 
ing she  horsewhipped  the  clerk  of  the  hotel  for 
being  a  little  too  previous.  Her  tireless  man- 
ager, Abe  Isaac's,  says  the  fellow  merited  his 

punishment. 

*  * 

* 

[From  the  Harlem  Correspondence  of  the  JVeio  York 
Vindicator.] 

Abe  Isaacs,  the  tireless  manager  of  the  young 
and  dashing  Southern  star,  Mamie  Crummels, 


The  Isaacs-  Crummels*  Boom.  99 

has   filled   thirty-eight  weeks  in   the  leading 
Southern  and  Western  theatres. 


Abe  Isaac's  has  purchased  from  the  eminent 
New  York  journalist  and  dramatic  critic,  Col. 
Mulligan  Bilkes,  (late  of  the  Globe),  his  power- 
ful emotional  and  society  drama,  entitled  The 
Love  of  a  Lioness;  or,  Blood  for  Blood.  Abe 
says  the  leading  role  will  fit  his  star  like  a  glove. 
Abe  ought  to  know. 

[From  the  Weekly  Blast,  June  18] 
Abe  Isaacs,  accompanied  by  the  beautiful 
Mamie  Cruinmels,  will  sail  on  the  Alaska.  They 
will  spend  a  month  in  Paris,  procuring  a  set  of 
costumes  from  Worth  for  Miss  C's  approaching 
starring  tour. 

[From  the  Weekly  Blast,  June  «!.] 
Edtior  New  York  Weekly  Blast : 

DEAR  SIR: — Please  allow  me  space  through 
the  columns  of  your  widely-read  journal  (the 
only  original  recognized  organ  of  our  profes- 
sion), to  contradict  the  annoying  rumor  about 
Miss  Mamie  Crummels  going  to  get  married  to 
a  Cuban  Duke.  She  has  got  no  such  intention. 


100  The  Isaacs-  Crummels*  Boom. 

I  have  got  her  on  a  four  year's  contract,  forbid- 
ding either  one  to  marry. 

Yours  in  haste, 

ABE  ISAACS, 
Manager  of  the  Great  Mamie  Crummels,  Long  Branch. 

*  * 
* 

The  printing  and  lithographic  work  for 
Mamie  Crummels'  starring  tour,  designed  by 
Abe  Isaacs,  will  beat  anything  on  the  road. 
Abe  says  he  intends  to  paralyze  the  gawks. 

[From  the  Blast,  June  28.] 

CALL. 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  engaged  for  the 
great  Abe  Isaacs'  Combination,  supporting  the 
bewitching  Mamie  Crummels,  are  notified  that 
the  season  will  begin  at  Bilgeville,  la.,  August 
22.  Rehearsal  August  15.  No  fares  ad- 
vanced. 

ABE  ISAACS,  Manager. 

Sol.  Cohen,  Programmer  and  Press  Agent. 

*  * 
* 

[From  the  Bilgeville  Breakwater,  August  15.] 
Our    enterprising     fellow     townsman,    Abe 
Isaacs  (late    clerk    at  Openheimer's   clothing 
house),  has  arrived  from  New  York.     Abe  has 


The  Isaacs-  Grummets'  fxmt.  >l      '  101 


become  one  of  the  leading  lights'  in"  the  show 
business.  He  is  busy  arranging  for  the  open- 
ing of  his  season  in  this,  his  native  city,  on  the 
22d.  The  principal  members  of  the  company 
have  arrived,  including  the  young  and  beauti- 
ful star,  Miss  Mamie  Crummels  (a  Southern 
belle),  who  is  quartered  at  Ben  Bragg's  Del- 
monico  Hotel.  Abe  is  chuck  full  of  business. 

[From  the  Bilgeville  Evening  Bugle,  August  16.] 
An  unusual  number  of  queer  specimens  of 
the  genus  humo  in  long  hair,  soft  hats,  linen 
dusters  and  seedy  pants,  leads  us  to  surmise 
that  "the  great  aggregation  of  New  York  star 
artists"  (from  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre)  has 

arrived. 

*  * 

* 

[From  the  Bilgeville  Breakwater,  August  S3.] 
ABE  ISAACS'  COMBINATION. 


MAMIE  CRUMMELS,  AMERICANS  GREATEST  TRAGEDY 
QUEEN,   AT    OPENHEIMER'S    GRAND    OPERA 
BOUSE,  LAST  NIGHT. 
The  elite  of  Bilgeville  assembled  last  night  at 

the  Grand  to  welcome  America's  greatest  ar. 

tiste,  Miss  Mamie  Crummels.     The  show  was 

first-rate.    Some  of  the  actors  were  not  "up"  in 


102  Tlte  Isaacs-  Orummels'  Bo&m. 

their  parts,  tad  the  sceneries  did  not  work 
very  well;  but  everything  went  off  in  good 
style.  The  play  was  Shakespeare's  Humpback, 
and  all  hands  done  first-rate,  especially  Billy 
Morton,  who  acted  Fathom,  and  just  brought 
down  the  house.  Miss  Crummels  done  first- 
rate  as  Juliet,  excepting  that  it  was  quite  hard 
to  hear  what  she  said.  Her  dresses  (purchased 
by  Abe  Isaacs  from  Worth,  of  London  (were 
splendid.  The  lamps  nearly  went  out  in  the 
last  act,  but  this  will  be  remedied  to-night. 
Owing  to  the  threatening  weather  and  the 
festival  at  the  Presbyterian  Church,  the  crowd 
was  small;  but  the  hall  will  be  jammed  to- 
night to  see  the  last  New  York  success,  called 
Romeo  and  Julia.  Secure  seats  at  Open- 
heimer's  great  clothing  store  and  avoid  the 

rush.  *  * 

* 

[From  the  Bilgeville  Evening  Bugle,  August  S3."] 
ANOTHER  IMPOSITION  ON  THE  PUBLIC. 


SHEENY  ISAACS'  MOB  OF  SUPES  AT  THE  OLD  HALL 
OVER  OPENHEIMER'S  SLOP-SHOP  CLOTHING 
STORE. 

Bilgeville   has   been  called   upon  to  endure 
many  afflictions  in  the  shape  of  alleged  shows, 


The  haacs-Crummels1  Boom.  103 

but  last  night's  fizzle  "  yanked  the  bun."  From 
America's  greatest  down  to  the  humblest  supe, 
not  one  person  on  the  stage  knew  their  part. 
The  curtain  persisted  in  falling  at  all  sorts  of 
odd  time,  excepting  the  right  time.  The  lights 
went  out  in  the  last  act,  instead  of  the  first,  as 
they  should  have  done,  in  charity  to  the  au- 
dience and  actors.  That  epitome  of  monu- 
mental gall  and  superfluous  idiocy,  Abe  Isaacs, 
attempted  to  make  a  speech,  but  was  appro- 
priately squelched  by  the  three  boys  on  the 
front  bench.  The  young,  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished star  of  the  evening  proved  to  be  an 
unmitigated  fraud — dark,  fat  and  forty-odd, 
with  a  matronly  and  Hebrewic  cast  of  features. 
There  were  about  twenty  men  and  boys  in  the 
house  all  told.  This  was  to  be  expected,  when 
we  remember  that  the  enterprising  (?)  manager 
failed  to  advertise  in  the  Evening  Eugle}  the  only 
paper  read  by  the  better  class  of  Bilgevillers, 
and  to  which  they  refer  as  an  authority  on 
show  matters.  This,  however,  has  had  no  in- 
fluence upon  our  criticism. 

[JFrom  the  Bilgeville  Breakwater,  August  $4>] 
ANOTHER  DRAMATIC  TREAT  AT  THE 

OPERA  HOUSE. 

Romeo  and  Juliet  was  acted  last  night  by  the 
great  Maraie  Crurnrnels  in  first-class  style.   The 


104  Tfie  Isaacs-  Grummets'  Boom. 

indefatigable  Abe  Isaacs  had  secured  four  addi- 
tional lamps  for  the  stage  and  two  for  the  hall, 
thereby  adding  greatly  to  the  brilliancy  of  the 
scene.  The  sceneries  worked  much  better,  ex- 
cepting where  the  board  representing  the  bal- 
cony scene  fell  over,  exposing  the  construction 
of  the  scene.  Miss  Cruminels  acted  Juliet  to 
the  life.  We  can  well  believe  Mr.  Isaacs  when 
he  says  on  his  bills,  printed  at  this  office,  that 
the  great  English  tragedian,  G.  Golding,  pro- 
nounced Miss  Crummels'  Juliet  a  startling  ex- 
hibition. In  the  graveyard  where  she  talks 
about  her  father's  bones  and  things,  she  beats 
Maggie  Mitchell,  whom  the  writer  saw  act  the 
same  play  at  Des  Moines,  last  winter.  As  she 
fell  on  Romeo's  prostrate  form,  Judge  Suggs, 
who  had  entered  and  taken  a  front  seat,  ex- 
claimed, impressively,  "  Great  God  1 "  Every- 
body done  first-rate,  especially  Billy  Morton, 
who  acted  out  Peter  in  a  way  to  bring  down 
the  house.  Billy  is  a  button-buster,  sure.  The 
crowd  was  not  quite  so  large  as  on  Monday, 
owing  probably  to  the  illness  of  Colonel  Blood- 
good's  infant  son,  which  has  cast  a  temporary 
gloom  over  our  best  society.  We  are  pleased 
to  add  that  Willie  is  better.  In  addition  to  this 


Tlie  Isaacs-  Crummdtf  Boom.  105 

there  was  a  meeting  of  the  Democratic  cam- 
paign committee,  at  the  office  of  Judge  Suggs, 
candidate  for  legislator,  over  Malloy's  sample 
room.  The  hall  will  doubtless  be  crowded  to- 
night, when  the  same  great  play  will  be  re- 
peated by  special  request. 

[From  the  Bilgeville  Evening  Bugle,  August  24] 
There  was  another  amusing  exhibition  at 
Openheimers  old  hall  last  night.  We  thought 
we  had  seen  the  acme  of  badness  on  Monday 
night,  bat  last  night  discounted  it.  We  dcubt 
if  so  much  gratuitous  imbecility  could  be  got 
together  in  any  community  in  America  outside 
of  the  idiotic  asylums.  The  appearance  of  the 
very  fat  and  very  middle-aged  lady  (America's 
greatest)  who  acted  the  young  and  tender  Juliet, 
was  the  signal  for  a  wild  laugh  from  the  three 
boys  on  the  front  bench,  who  distributed  the 
vilely-printed  programmes  during  the  day. 
But  an  awful  stillness  reigned  when  Mr.  Sol 
Cohen,  the  "press  manipulator "  of  the  com- 
pany, came  forward  to  announce  that  owing  to 
the  sudden  indisposition  of  Mr.  R  Macready 
Spofford,  the  character  of  Romeo  would  be  as- 
sumed at  a  moment's  notice,  by  the  Bilgeville 


106  The  Isaacs- Crummeh*  Bomn. 

favorite,  Mr.  Abraham  Isaacs,  of  the  Hebrew 
Thespian  Society.  This  announcement  was 
followed  by  a  rush  for  the  door  of  thirteen  of 
the  eighteen  composing  the  audience,  the  writer 
among  the  number.  We  felt  instinctively  the 
need  of  a  stimulant.  We  got  back  just  in  time 
to  see  the  balcony  (two  of  Openheimer's  shut- 
ters) fall  over,  lighting  on  Abe's  ample  feet,  and 
exposing  the  fat  and  formidable  Juliet  standing 
on  a  flour  barrel,  the  head  of  which  suddenly 
refused  to  sustain  its  lovely  load,  precipitating 
the  massive  Juliet  as  far  into  the  barrel  as  her 
aesthetic  development  would  permit.  The  cur- 
tain fell  upon  this  unique  tableau,  and  we  de- 
parted, satisfied  that  if  Shakespeare  could  see 
that  performance  he  would  be  glad  that  he  was 
dead.  We  are  informed  that  the  three  pro- 
gramme boys,  the  critic  of  our  esteemed  and 
h armless  contemporary,  and  Judge  Suggs,  who 
was  sleeping  off  his  "ratifications,"  remained 
to  the  bitter  end.  For  the  sake  of  art  we  hope 
that  Abe  will  not  be  discouraged  by  this  inci- 
dent. He  is  not  the  first  great  artist  who  has 
failed  in  Romeo.  In  fact,  there  has  not  been  a 
really  successful  Romeo  in  the  show  business 
since  the  famous  elephant  died. 


Tlie  Isaacs-  Crummels'  Boom.  107 

(From  the  Bilgeville  Breakwater,  August  29.] 
A  SAD  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


The  audience  that  assembled  at  the  Opera 
House  on  Saturday  night  to  witness  the  closing 
performance  of  the  great  emotional  artiste, 
Mamie  Crummels,  were  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. The  play  to  be  acted  was  called  "  The 
Love  of  a  Lioness,"  or,  "  Blood  for  Blood," 
written  by  the  eminent  New  York  journalist, 
Col  Mulligan  Bilkes,  editor-in-chief  of  The 
Herald.  At  about  a  quarter  before  nine  Mr. 
Isaacs  came  out  and  announced  that  owing  to 
the  non-arrival  of  the  elaborate  new  sceneries 
and  costumes  from  New  York,  the  play  could 
not  be  presented.  This  closed  the  season  of 
the  company  in  this  city  for  the  present.  They 
go  from  here  to  Rogers'  Corners,  where  it  is  to 
be  hoped  they  may  do  well.  Mr.  Ben  Bragg, 
proprietor  of  Bragg's  Delmouico  Hotel,  has 
been  so  deeply  impressed  with  the  great  histri- 
onic powers  of  Miss  Crummels  that  he  has  paid 
Abe  Isaacs  a  handsome  bonus  for  an  interest 
in  the  company,  and  will  send  Bob  along  to 
represent  his  interest.  Mr.  Isaacs  has  given 
ample  security  for  his  printing  bill,  and  we 


108  The  Isaacs-  Grummets'  Boom. 

commend  this  company  to  the  press  and  public 
of  Rogers7  Corners. 

[From  the  Bilgeville  Evening  Bugle,  Aug.  Z9.~\ 
LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL. 


THE     GREAT    ISAACS-CRUMMELS'     BUBBLE     HAS 
BUSTED. 

The  internal  troubles  that  have  been  brewing 
during  the  week  culminated  on  Saturday  night, 
when  several  members  of  the  company  refused 
to  play  unless  they  saw  the  color  of  Abe  Isaac's 
money.  The  audience  were  told  that  such  as 
had  purchased  their  tickets  could  get  their 
money  at  the  door ;  but  as  all  ten  of  the  au- 
dience were  deadheads,  the  ceremony  was  dis- 
pensed with.  It  is  rumored  that  the  remnant 
of  this  demoralized  army  will  attack  Rogers7 
Corners  next  week.  This  is  a  good  thing  for 
Bilgeville,  but  it's  rough  on  Rogers'  Corners. 
Fortunately  (for  the  company)  the  distance  to 
Rogers'  Corners  is  short  and  the  walking  good. 
Mr.  Macready  Spofford,  the  leading  heavy  actor 
of  the  company,  will  remain  in  this  city  and 
give  a  reading  next  week,  after  which  he  will 
instruct  our  local  amateurs.  He  says  he  will 
rejoin  Edwin  Booth  as  leading  support  next 


The  Isaacs- Crummels*  Boom.  109 

season.  "  Billy  "  Morton,  who  is  a  better  typo 
than  actor,  will  "  sub  "  on  the  Bugle  until  he  is 
telegraphed  for  by  Mary  Anderson's  manager. 
Ben  Bragg  has  become  greatly  attached  to  this 
company.  In  fact,  he  has  several  attachments, 
and  Bob  will  go  along  to  Rogers'  Corners  to 
assist  Abe  Isaacs  in  relieving  them — by  selling 
tickets  while  Abe  tends  door. — Sic  transit  gloria. 

[Bilgeville  Correspondent  Weekly  Blast,  August  26.] 
Abe  Isaacs'  great  company,  supporting  the 
great  Mamie  Crummels,  has  taken  Bilgeville 
by  storm.  Abe  is  a  Bilgeville  boy,  and  a 
worker.  In  less  able  managerial  hands  the 
success  of  the  season  would  have  been  doubtful, 
as  Bilgeville  has  been  overrun  with  snide 
shows.  Abe  has  been  offered  the  management 
of  several  leading  combinations,  but  says  he  has 
a  fortune  in  his  present  attraction.  Abe  swears 
by  the  Blast. 

Bob  Bragg  has  returned  to  the  city. — Bilge- 
ville Breakwater,  Sept.  5. 

The  veteran  theatrical  manager,  Abraham 
Isaacs,  Esq.,  is  among  the  latest  arrivals  in 
Bilgeville.  Abe's  No.  6  hat  and  No.  11  boots 


110  The  Isaacs- Crummels*  Boom. 

will  in  the  future  adorn  their  old  familiar 
haunt  in  front  of  Openheimer's  clothing  store. 
Never  mind,  Abe.  Tis  better  to  have  loved 
and  lost  than  to  be  euchered  on  a  bob-tail  flush. 
— Bilgewlle  Evening  Bugle. 

[A  few  cards  from  the  Blast,  Sept.  15.] 

T>  MACRBADY  SPOFFORD,  HEAVY  LEAD, DISENGAGED. 
-LV>  Address  this  office,  or  Bilgeville,  la. 

TMLLY   MORTON,    LOW    COM.    BIZ..    DISENGAGED.     AD- 

J    dress  this  office,  or  Bugle,  Bilgeville,  la. 

\|R.  AND  MRS.  SEPTIMUS  SAUNDERS,  FOPS  AND  TN- 
lfj-  genue,  disengaged.  Address  this  office,  or  Rogers'  Cor- 
ners, la. 

TJORATIO CLIFFORD.  JUVENILE;  BESSIE  ALMONT,  WALK- 
J-L  ing  lady,  and  little  Eva  and  Sadie,  t be  juvenile  wonders, 
disengaged.  Address  this  office,  or  Rogers'  Corners,  la. 

[From  the  New  York  Globe,  Editorial,  Sept.  15,] 

Miss  Mamie  Crummels  has  been  compelled 
by  failing  health  to  relinquish  her  starring 
season  in  the  West  and  South,  which  began 
most  auspiciously.  Miss  C.  arrived  in  this  city 
during  the  present  week  and  will  take  a  much 
needed  rest.  She  speaks  in  glowing  terms  of 
her  reception  in  the  principal  cities  of  the  West. 
She  will  resume  her  season  about  December  10 
with  a  stronger  and  better  support,  and  a  new 
drama  of  thrilling  contemporaneous  interest  by 
an  eminent  Western  journalist,  entitled :  "  Little 


The  Isaacs- Crummels'  Boom.  Ill 

Rose-Bud,  the  Lily  of  the  Plains ,  or,  The  Dew- 
Drop  of  Gory  Gulch." 

[Advertisement  from  the  New  York  Herald,  Sept,  22. ] 

rpHE  eminent,  emotional  and  tragic  star,  Mamie  Crummels, 
x  will  give  instructions  to  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  elocution 
and  stage  art.  Metropolitan  engagements  guaranteed.  Call  at 
*  Lexington  Ave.,  over  Drug  Store. 

And  the  woods  are  full  of  'em. 


"GEORGE." 


EORGE  was  a  dog.  There  is  nothing 
particularly  new  or  startling  in  the 
mere  statement,  but  there  are  dogs 
and  dogs.  George  was  not  particularly  dis- 
tinguished from  other  dogs  in  point  of  physical 
beauty.  Candor  compels  the  admission  that  in 
the  matter  of  personal  appearance  George  was 
plebeian.  In  point  of  fact  George  was  what 
would  be  vulgarly  called  a  "yaller  dog." 
George's  great  specialty  was  mind,  and  it  was 
in  this  particular  that  he  rose  superior  to  other 
dogs  of  my  acquaintance.  George  was  one  of 
my  "palmy  day"  companions.  I  have  many 
remembrances,  pleasant  and  otherwise,  of  my 
"palmy  day"  experiences,  but  none  more  vivid 
or  interesting  as  a  retrospect  than  my  too  brief 
acquaintance  with  George.  We  met  each  other 
in  Denver,  in  1869.  On  the  corner  where  the 
famous  Tabor  block  now  challenges  the  wonder 
and  admiration  of  the  tourist,  stood  an  old  two- 


"George."  113 

story  frame  hotel,  known  as  the  Boardwell 
House.  On  the  corner  directly  north,  where 
another  structure  rears  its  seven  granite  stories, 
there  was  a  sand-hill,  and  on  the  top  of  that 
sand-hill  was  a  long,  low  frame  structure 
known  as  the  Denver  Theatre.  A  merry  band 
of  players  was  holding  forth  at  the  Denver 
Theatre,  and  such  leisure  as  study  and  re- 
hearsals left  us  was  devoted  to  foot-racing, 
quoit-pitching,  riding  the  festive  bronchos,  or 
luxuriating  on  the  benches  in  front  of  the  old 
Boardwell,  swapping  lies.  It  was  while  de- 
veloping my  imagination  in  the  latter  occupa- 
tion that  my  acquaintance  with  the  hero  of  this 
true  tale  began.  The  chance  acquaintance, 
which  afterward  ripened  into  intimacy,  began 
entirely  sans  ceremcmie.  It  was  this  way :  I  was 
on  the  outer  edge  of  the  board  sidewalk, 
propped  back  against  a  tree-box,  telling  Jimmie 
Martin  and  George  Waldron  of  my  early  St. 
Joe  and  Omaha  triumphs,  when  I  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  fearful  "yelp,"  and  simultaneously 
a  mangy,  colorless  cur  dropped  into  my  lap. 
My  seat  was  directly  opposite  the  open  door  of 
the  bar-room.  The  dog,  driven  desperate  by 
the  cravings  of  the  inner  dog,  had  sneaked 


114  "Gorge* 

into  the  bar-room  to  snatch  a  piece  of  cracker 
from  the  floor,  when  the  eagle  eye  and  number 
nine  boot  of  the  bar-keeper  fell  upon  him,  with 
the  result  above  described.  My  chair  careened 
gracefully,  depositing  me  in  the  gutter,  from 
which  vantage-ground  I  could  see  and  hear  my 
canine  surprise  party  flying  up  the  road  on 
three  legs.  A  half  hour  later  I  was  going 
through  a  "  carpenter  scene "  with  the  low 
comedian,  when  the  familiar  "yelp"  again 
greeted  me.  I  rose  instinctively  to  see  my 
mangy  friend  flying  for  his  life  from  a  big 
overgrown  cur  dog.  The  race  ended  by  my 
hero  taking  shelter  under  the  wooden  steps  of 
the  theatre,  where  his  pursuer  could  not  follow 
him.  The  following  day,  at  about  the  same 
hour,  the  familiar  signal  of  distress  again  rent 
the  air,  this  time  accompanied  by  the  rattling 
of  an  oyster  can  attached  to  the  end  of  the  dog 
opposite  to  the  yelp.  Again  the  theatre  steps 
afforded  an  asylum  of  refuge.  By  this  time  I 
had  become  interested  in  this  dog.  I  coaxed 
him  from  under  the  steps,  divided  him  from 
the  can,  took  him  into  the  theatre,  and  for  the 
first  time  had  a  good  look  at  him.  That  dog 
was  a  study.  Could  his  pedigree  have  been 


"George."  115 

traced,  I  have  no  doubt  it  would  have  revealed 
the  mingled  bloods  of  the  entire  canine  family. 
His  legs  were  short  and  his  body  was  long.  His 
head  was  abnormally  large,  and  his  body  was 
thin.  About  the  head  and  face  he  had  the 
shaggy  yellow  hair  of  a  terrier.  One  ear  had 
evidently  been  chewed  off,  and  the  other  stood 
erect  or  lopped  over,  as  moved  by  the  mood  of 
the  wearer.  One  eye  was  white  and  the  other 
pink.  He  was  a  type  of  the  homeless,  unfed 
cur.  Every  element  of  dogly  pride,  courage, 
or  resentment  had  been  kicked  or  starved  out 
of  him,  I  deposited  him  in  my  dressing-room, 
and  that  night  I  gave  him  a  royal  feed.  He 
was  beyond  comparison  the  ugliest  dog  I  ever 
saw;  but  as  he  devoured  his  food,  with  his 
white  eye  furtively  watching  for  the  expected 
kick,  he  won  me  with  his  unique  hideousness. 
I  resolved  then  and  there  to  adopt  him — to  link, 
as  it  were,  our  destinies. 

I  loved  him  for  the  wrongs  he  had  endured, 
And  he  loved  me  for  the  Tictuals  I  procured. 

I  first  set  about  trying  to  learn  his  name.  I 
saluted  him  by  every  name  known  to  dogology, 
but  none  seemed  to  produce  the  desired  caudal 
oscillation.  So  I  christened  him  "George," 


116  "George." 

principally,  I  think,  because  he  was  particularly 
obnoxious  to  George  Waldron.  Of  course  I 
knew  that  George  was  different  from  other  dogs' 
names ;  but,  then,  George  was  different  himself. 
George  soon  became  as  well  known  on  the 
street  as  the  other  members  of  the  company, 
and  the  hand  that  affixed  the  fragrant  oyster 
can,  or  playfully  hurled  the  idle  brick,  was 
stretched  forth  to  gently  stroke  the  erstwhile 
vagrant  cur.  George's  development  was  rapid. 
He  soon  knew  each  member  of  the  company, 
and  declined  to  be  patronized  by  anybody  else. 
Tn  one  thing  George  at  first  caused  me  a  pang. 
When  I  looked  at  his  long,  lank  body  and  his 
big  head,  I  anticipated  the  pleasure  I  should 
experience  in  seeing  him  expand  under  the  in- 
fluence of  kind  words  and  cold  victuals.  I  knew 
that  eating  couldn't  make  his  head  any  bigger, 
and  I  fondly  hoped  that  it  might  so  develop 
the  body  as  to  more  nearly  preserve  the  unities. 
But  the  more  he  ate  the  more  he  didn't  seem 
to  expand.  This  worried  me.  I  feared  that 
long  fasting  and  much  kicking  had  permanently 
disarranged  his  digestive  organs.  One  day  I 
took  him  to  a  barber  who  was  well  up  in  dogs, 
and  asked  him  why  George  didn't  get  fat.  The 


"George."  117 

barber  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  said  he  guessed  George  was 
the  other  kind  of  a  dog.  Of  course  this  hadn't 
occurred  to  me,  as  George  was  my  first  dog. 
About  this  time  George's  mind  began  to  give 
those  evidences  of  development  which  gave  him 
his  subsequent  fame.  With  his  mental  expan- 
sion came  also  a  wonderful  moral  courage.  He 
knew  the  oyster-can  boy  instinctively,  and  on 
two  or  three  occasions  made  his  presence  un- 
pleasantly felt.  The  boys  recognized  the  change 
in  their  relative  conditions,  and  sought  to  con- 
ciliate him ;  but  while  George  was  progressive 
in  most  things,  in  the  matter  of  forgetting  oys- 
ter cans  he  was  a  Bourbon,  and  so  the  small 
boy  collectively  gave  him  a  wide  berth.  And 
so  with  the  big  cur  dog,  who  had  made  life  a 
burden.  The  manner  in  which  George  would 
sit  in  the  door  of  the  hotel  and  glare  defiantly 
at  his  old  and  powerful  enemies  was  wonderful. 
By  the  end  of  the  first  week  he  would  venture 
unattended  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  sidewalk, 
and  bark  fiercely  at  his  former  tormentors.  In 
two  weeks  he  would  recklessly  dash  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  street  with  revenge  in  his  voice  and 
blood  in  his  eye  whenever  he  saw  a  big  dog 


118 

passing.  Should  the  dog  incidentally  turn  to 
see  what  it  was,  the  short  space  of  time  in  which 
George  would  cover  the  ground  between  the 
middle  of  the  street  and  the  bar-room  door  was 
simply  incredible.  About  this  time  occurred 
an  incident  that  for  a  time  threatened  to  destroy 
George's  usefulness  by  making  him  ridiculous. 
Jimmie  Griffiths,  Ned  Shapter  and  Jim  Martin 
one  afternoon  coaxed  George  into  the  theatre 
and  sheared  him  after  the  manner  of  the  circus 
lion,  excepting  that  they  left  the  long  hair  only 
on  his  head  and  face  and  the  tip  of  his  tail. 
They  then  proceeded  to  fresco  him.  They 
painted  his  whiskers  an  ultramarine  blue,  his 
shaggy  eyebrows  received  a  coat  of  emerald 
green,  his  solitary  ear  a  covering  of  lampblack, 
the  tip  of  his  tail  was  a  flaming  red,  his  pro- 
truding ribs  were  brought  out  like  bas-reliefs 
with  lines  of  chrome  yellow.  His  feet  and  legs 
had  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and  a  line  of 
dark  brown  the  length  of  his  backbone  com- 
pleted a  make-up  that  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  skeleton  decked  for  the  Jubilee.  I  had  been 
out  for  an  airing  on  my  favorite  broncho,  and 
on  my  return  to  the  hotel  this  apparition  con- 
fronted me.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  my 


"George"  119 

feelings.  Even  now,  with  nearly  two  decades 
of  years  intervening,  I  feel  my  utter  inability 
to  treat  the  subject  dispassionately.  There  are 
emotions  in  the  lives  of  dogs  and  men,  for  the 
suitable  expression  of  which  the  compilers  of 
our  language  have  made  no  adequate  provision, 
and  so  I  will  pass  in  silence  the  brief  interval 
immediately  following  this  meeting.  I  am  sure 
that  my  indignation  was  no  greater  than  George's 
mortification.  There  was  certainly  an  absence 
of  the  customary  spontaneity  in  his  greeting. 
True,  his  close-shaven  tail,  with  its  flaming  tip, 
wagged  a  welcome,  but  it  was  not  the  free,  joy- 
ous wag  of  yesterday.  I  fancied  also  that  he 
ate  three  or  four  pounds  less  than  usual  for 
supper  that  evening.  Still  this  may  have  been 
an  illusion  on  my  part,  as  three  or  four  pounds 
one  way  or  the  other  would  scarcely  have  been 
noticeable  in  George's  ordinary  meal.  It  was, 
of  course,  impossible  for  me  to  learn  for  some 
days  who  perpetrated  the  outrage.  No  one 
know  anything  about  it.  George  soon  became 
reconciled  to  his  changed  appearance,  and  in 
the  increased  popular  favor  which  the  incident 
secured  to  him,  I  buried  my  resentment.  But 
George  was  rudely  shorn  of  those  elements  of 


120  "George." 

dignity  which  he  had  been  so  rapidly  acquiring. 
He  had  suddenly  become  a  comedian,  and  had 
only  to  show  his  painted  mug  to  "  set  the  table 
in  a  roar," 

Notable  incidents  in  George's  career  now  fol- 
lowed in  rapid  succession.  We  produced  "Un- 
der the  Gaslight,"  and  on  the  opening  night 
George  was  in  the  dressing-room  sweetly  dream- 
ing on  my  dress-coat.  The  pier  scene  was  on, 
and  in  the  character  of  Trafford  I  made  the 
desperate  plunge  from  the  pier  into  the  Denver 
version  of  the  East  River  to  rescue  the  heroine. 
Some  one — I  could  never  learn  who — had  rudely 
wakened  George  and  brought  him  upstairs  just 
in  time  to  see  me  make  the  leap.  With  a  howl 
of  recognition  George  flew  out  on  the  pier, 
paused  just  long  enough  for  the  audience  to 
get  a  good  look  at  him,  and  plunged  in  after 
me.  As  I  raised  the  heroine  from  the  angry 
waves,  and  supported  myself  against  Snorkey's 
boat,  I  could  see  George's  blue  whiskers  and 
pink  eyes  climbing  over  the  top  of  a  set  water. 
Of  course  there  was  an  encore,  during  which 
George  succeeded  in  levelling  the  two  rows  of 
set  waters,  exposing  the  running-gear  of  the 
profile  boat,  and  finally  joining  me  on  the  old 


"George."  121 

mattress  which  constituted  the  turbulent  waters 
of  the  East  River.  It  is  needless  to  add  that 
George's  debut  created  a  sensation.  The  au- 
dience regarded  it  as  a  part  of  the  play,  and 
when  on  the  following  night  he  failed  to  make 
his  appearance,  there  went  up  a  protest  so  vig- 
orous that  Jack  Langrishe  gained  my  reluctant 
consent  to  an  announcement  of  George's  posi- 
tive appearance  each  night  the  piece  was  played. 
As  George's  physical  eccentricities  and  facial 
make-up  were  not  particularly  suited  to  the 
heroic  rescue  business,  we  put  a  yellow  cap  and 
red  flannel  jacket  on  him  and  sent  him  on  in 
the  police  court  scene  as  the  Italian  organ- 
grinder's  monkey.  That  week  we  received  full 
salaries.  While  George  never  personally  pro- 
tested, I  have  always  believed  that  he  felt  hurt 
at  being  taken  out  of  heroics  and  put  into  low 
comedy.  True,  certain  natural  and  artificial 
conditions  over  which  he  had  no  control  may 
have  made  him  look  the  latter  character  best, 
but  he  had  a  mind  superior  to  monkey  busi- 
ness. George  had  now  arrived  at  that  stage  of 
development  when  he  would  fearlessly  make  a 
bluff  at  the  biggest  dog  in  town.  But  with 
that  rare  forethought  characteristic  of  himself, 


122  « George." 

he  bluffed  only  at  such  times  as  members  of 
the  company  were  at  hand  to  cover  his  retreat. 
This  trait  in  George's  character  I  greatly  ad- 
mired. In  common  with  other  of  his  prom- 
inent traits,  it  afforded  me  an  insight  into  the 
far-seeing  wisdom  of  Pythagoras.  George  soon 
reached  the  transformation  period  of  his  event- 
ful career.  In  spite  of  my  watchfulness  he 
would  appear  almost  daily  in  a  new  set  of  col- 
ors, or,  rather,  in  a  new  distribution  of  the  old 
ones.  One  day  it  would  be  red  whiskers,  blue 
ribs  and  a  green  tail ;  the  next,  green  whiskers, 
red  eyebrows  and  a  blue  tail.  One  morning  at 
rehearsal  he  walked  ou  to  the  stage  entirely 
washed  of  his  gaudy  colors.  At  last,  I  thought, 
they  are  going  to  give  him  a  rest;  to  allow  one 
appearance  in  natural  tints.  Vain  delusion! 
As  George  was  making  a  dignified  exit  I  heard 
a  roar  of  laughter,  and  looking  carefully  for  the 
cause,  I  discovered  that  the  gay  tints  had  been 
removed  in  order  to  bring  out  in  bolder  relief 
an  artistic  bit  of  partial  gilding. 

With  the  warm  April  days  there  caiue  a 
change  in  George's  habits.  He  would  fre- 
quently absent  himself  from  the  dressing-room 
during  the  evening — ao  unusual  proceeding. 


"George" 

During  the  last  act  he  would  crawl  or  sneak 
into  the  room,  looking  up  sheepishly  at  me 
through  his  shaggy  green  eyebrows,  and  half 
crawl  and  half  slide  like  a  guilty  thing  into 
his  corner.  By  a  reflection  from  the  mirror  I 
could  see  that  he  was  stealthily  watching  me, 
but  when  I  turned  suddenly,  his  eyes  would  be 
closed  in  profound  slumber.  One  night  I 
called  Jimmie  Griffith  in  to  watch  the  panto- 
mime. He  carefully  observed  the  proceeding, 
and  explained  with  a  laugh  that  George  had 
evidently  got  a  sweetheart.  From  this  time  on 
there  was  an  absence  of  that  entire  cordiality 
in  our  relations  that  had  formerly  prevailed. 
We  remained  on  speaking  terms,  to  be  sure, 
but  I  could  see  that,  on  his  part  at  least,  there 
was  a  divided  affection.  These  strained  rela- 
tions continued  for  a  week.  The  time  was  at 
hand  when  we  were  to  take  the  coach  for  a  ride 
over  the  Rockies  to  Central  City.  I  had  in- 
tended taking  George  with  me.  I  had  fondly 
hoped  that  a  change  of  air  and  scene  would  re- 
call him  to  some  sense  of  his  duty  to  society ; 
but  the  siren's  spell  had  bound  him.  On  the 
last  day  of  April  we  mounted  the  old  Concord, 
bright  and  early.  I  looked  vainly  for  my 


124 


"George." 


protege,  upon  whom  I  had  lavished  so  much,  but 
the  base  ingrate  did  not  even  come  to  whine  a 
parting  or  bark  a  God-speed,  and  so  we  parted. 
And  as  I  rode  sadly  out  the  old  Golden  road, 
that  bright  April  morning,  I  doubt  not  that 
selfish  voluptuary,  true  to  the  Pythagorean  in- 
stinct, was  snugly  couched  in  pleasure's  lap. 


STAGE  ASPIRANTS. 

(From  an  old  Interview). 


American  character  is  kaleido- 
scopic. It  is  safe  to  assume  that  one- 
half  of  our  population  have  at  some 
period  of  their  existence  conceived  the  idea  they 
were  undiscovered  geniuses  or  predestined  dra- 
matic managers.  The  idea  that  the  drama  is 


126  Stage  Aspirants. 

a  profession  requiring  a  novitiate  they  do  not 
for  a  moment  entertain.  They  ignore  the  fact 
that  Davenport,  Booth,  Barrett,  Jefferson,  in 
fact,  about  all  successful  actors,  served  many 
years'  apprenticeship  at  utility,  for  starvation 
salary ;  or  that  Lester  Wallack  played  walking 
gents  at  $15  a  week.  These  reflections  were 
suggested  during  a  talk  held  last  week  by  a 
Mirror  man  and  Milton  Nobles,  in  which  Mr. 
Nobles  gave  the  following  documentary  evi- 
dence of  the  above  statement.  The  letters  ap- 
pended are  bona  fide,  and  speak  for  themselves. 
"  Here  is  a  bright  one,"  said  Nobles. 

PHILADELPHIA,  June  6, 1881. 

MILTON  NOBLES,  ESQ.,  CARE  NEW  YORK  MIRROR: 
SIR  :— The  season  of  '81-82  promises  to  be  one  of  un- 
usual success  and  prosperity  to  managers  having 
worthy  attractions.  It  is  essential  and  prudent  for 
them  to  engage  only  reliable  and  experienced  people ; 
therefore  the  services  of  a  first-class  press  and  advance 
agent  are  indispensable.  You  will  consult  your  inter- 
est if  original  methods  in  advertising  are  an  object. 
I  claim  all  the  above,  and  guarantee  success  if  your 
"  ads."  are  placed  in  my  hands.  Please  state  salary 
and  address  A.  H., 

Ad  vance  and  Press  Agent,  Lawrence  St. ,  Philadelphia. 

"This  letter,"  continued  Nobles,  "was  from 
some  fellow  never  heard  of  in  the  profession, 


Stage  Aspirants.  127 

or  out  of   it.     Did   I  answer  it?     Of  course. 
Here  was  my  reply : 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y.,  June  8, 1881. 

MR.  A.  H . 

MY  DEAR  SIR:— Your  modest  letter  of  advice  is  re- 
ceived and  duly  placed  upon  the  "  gall  hook."  What 
you  lack  is  confidence.  You're  too  modest.  I  want 
just  such  a  man  as  you  are,  but  I  know  they  couldn't 
get  along  without  you  in  Philadelphia.  Still,  we  can 
be  of  use  to  each  other.  My  experience  in  my  profes- 
sion is  limited— a  trifle  of  fifteen  years  or  so,  and  I 
need  counsel  such  as  yours.  Some  time  when  you 
have  leisure,  say  about  a  couple  of  years  from  now, 
write  me  at  length.  Tell  me  about  how  you  think  I 
ought  to  run  my  company,  and  what  you  think  the 
public  want.  Don't  be  diffident.  Let  yourself  out 
and  send  in  your  bill.  But,  above  all,  caution.  Be 
secret,  because  if  Goodwin  or  Mrs.  Drew  suspected 
that  you  contemplated  leaving  Philadelphia,  they 
would  get  an  injunction  and  prevent  it,  and  then  I 
should  lose  you.  Gratefully  thine, 

MILTON  NOBLES. 

"  I  havn't  heard  from  him  since,"  continued 
the  actor,  "  but  I  presume  the  next  mail  will 
bring  an  acceptance  of  my  terms  and  a  contract 
to  sign." 

"Do  you  ever  get  applications  from  stage- 
struck  females?"  asked  The  Mirror  man. 

"  Do  I  ?    Well,  maybe  I  don't !     Here  is  one 


128  Stage  Aspirants. 

from  a  Western  town  that  came  this  very  morn- 
ing: 

TOPEKA,  Kan.,  June  5, 1881. 

MR.  NOBLES,  CAKE  N.  Y.  MIRROR  : 

You  will  doubtless  be  surprised  at  receiving  this 
letter  from  an  entire  stranger,  but  me  and  my  sister 
want  to  go  on  the  stage.  I  enclose  our  pictures.  We 
have  played  often  with  amateurs,  and  have  considera- 
ble experience.  I  have  acted  Pauline,  also  Camille 
and  Juliet  (Shakespeare).  My  sister,  who  is  two  (2) 
years  younger  than  I,  and  said  to  be  very  beautiful, 
has  only  played  once,  but  she  has  great  natural  talent 
for  comedy  characters  like  Lotta.  Many  of  our  friends 
and  the  critics  here  say  she  is  superior  to  Lotta  or 
Maggie  Mitchell.  My  relatives  are  bitterly  opposed 
to  our  going  on  the  stage,  as  our  family  are  well  con- 
nected, and  my  intended,  who  is  a  critic,  too,  says 
that  if  I  will  wait  until  after  our  marriage  (next  year) 
he  will  write  a  piece  for  us,  but  I  want  to  begin  right 
away  and  learn,  and  as  yours  is  the  only  company  with 
which  I  would  wish  to  travel,  1  will  accept  the  leading 
business,  and  my  sister  the  soubrettes.  Please  answer 
by  return  mail,  stating  what  you  will  pay,  and  when 
you  want  us  to  join  you.  Excuse  bad  pen. 

ANNIE  FILKINS. 

Stage  name,  Leo  Leoni.    Sister's  stage  name,  Madgin 
May. 

"Strange  to  say,  this  letter  was  written  in  a 
clean,  graceful  hand,  and  the  enclosed  photo- 
graphs revealed  two  pretty  faces,  bearing  un- 
mistakable traces  of  intelligence.  I  wrote, 


Stage  Aspirants.  129 

expressing  regrets  that  they  hadn't  written 
a  week  earlier,  as  I  had  heard  of  them, 
and  knew  they  were  just  what  I  wanted.  In 
fact  there  was  a  public  demand  for  them.  I 
enclosed  them  letters  of  recommendation  to  Jim 
Collier,  Bob  Spiller,  Jimmy  Dickson,  Tony 
Denier,  Maggie  Mitchell  and  Buffalo  Bill.  I 
shall  watch  the  career  of  these  young  geniuses 
with  interest." 

"  Here  is  the  best  specimen  of  cheek  that  I 

have  seen  lately :  " 

COHOES,  N.  Y.,  May  9, 1881. 
Mr.  milton  Nobles 

deer  Sir— My  Friends  advise  me  to  go  on  the  Stage 
i  thought  i  would  right  you  about  it  and  for  your  Ad- 
vise, i  am  5  ft  9  in  tal,  black  curley  hare  and  large 
mustach.  i  would  like  to  play  lovers  or  comic  parts, 
can  likewise  sing  a  fine  irish  song  imitating  pat 
Kooney.  if  your  company  is  full  can  recommend 
some  responsible  manager  who  wants  an  actor  of  my 
style.  Anser  by  return  male 

E.  EMMET  GKATTAN, 

P.  O.  Cohoes  N.  Y. 

"I  wrote  Grattan,  enclosing  a  book  of  the 
'  Iron  Chest/  and  told  him  to  go  at  the  char- 
acter of  Mortimer  at  once,  as  I  expected  to  do 
the  piece  in  Cohoes  during  the  coming  season, 
and  I  would  bring  him  out.  I  expect  he  is  at 
it." 


130  Stage  Aspirants. 

"You  have  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  I  perceive," 
said  the  reporter. 

"  My  dear  boy,  before  you  are  in  this  business 
long,  you  will  have  just  as  keen  a  one  as  I  have. 
But  I  want  to  show  you  the  letter  I  received 
from  Miss  Smith  The  shock  struck  me  while 
I  was  in  San  Francisco  last  fall.  Here  it  is : 

CINCINNATI,  Ohio,  Nov.  8, 1880. 
DEAR  MR.  NOBLES: 

You  will  be  surprised  at  receiving  this  letter  from 
a  lady  who  is  an  entire  stranger  to  you.  But  though 
personally  unknown  to  you,  you  are  no  stranger  to  me, 
for  I  have  seen  your  acting,  and  night  after  night  have 
sat  enraptured  beneath  the  spell  of  your  genius.  Have 
I  not  seen  your  graceful  form  surrounded  by  cruel,  de- 
vouring flames,  dragged  from  my  sight  by  the  brave 
little  flower  girl,  while  my  whole  being  burned  with  a 
secret  desire  to  be  in  her  place.  But  this  is  girlish 
folly.  Mr.  Nobles,  I  believe  that  I  was  born  for  the 
stage.  I  write  to  you  thus  boldly,  as  I  am  sure  that 
you  are  as  good  as  you  are  handsome,  and  there  are 
not  many  companies  that  I  would  care  to  travel  with. 
I  am  not  old,  rather  tall,  brown  hair,  blue  eyes,  good 
figure,  and  by  some  considered  handsome.  Mr.  Nobles, 
you  are  a  single  man— but  why,  this  is  girlish  folly— I 
trust  you  will  not  betray  my  confidence,  as  my  family 
oppose  my  being  an  actress,  especially  my  younger 
brothers;  one  of  them  is  a  printer,  and  the  other  keeps 
a  saloon  on  Vine  street.  I  have  acted  with  amateurs, 
and  my  friends  on  the  papers,  Mr.  Charlie  McLean,  of 


Stage  Aspirants.  131 

the  Commercial,  and  Johnny  McCormick,  of  the  En- 
quirer, like  me  very  much.  They  gave  me  good  notices. 
I  enclose  my  picture.  It  is  not  a  good  one,  and  my 
friends  think  it  does  not  do  me  justice.  I  shall  never 
allow  that  man  to  take  me  again.  You  can  keep  the 
picture. 

Please,  dear  Mr.  Nobles,  do  not  keep  me  long  in 
suspense.  I  feel  that  I  must  become  an  actress.  It 

is  my  duty. 

Affectionately  yours, 

JANE  A.  S— rra. 
P.  S.— My  stage  name  is  Olivia  Montrose.     JANE. 

"  I  played  that  night,  but  really  haven't  felt 
just  right  since.  However,  I  was  able  to  write 
Olivia  as  follows,  the  next  day : 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  Cal.,  Nov.  16, 18C0. 
DEAREST  OLIVIA:— Why  did  you  not  write  before  V 
I  knew  that  it  was  coming.  I  felt  it.  I  had  seen  you 
for  months  in  my  dreams.  I  thought  at  first  it  was 
cholera  rnorbus.  Some  of  nay  friends  thought  I  had 
'em  again,  but  when  your  picture  came  all  doubt  was 
removed.  Some  men  are  born  to  these  things,  others 
acquire  them,  but  mine  is  thrust  upon  me.  When  can 
you  come  ? 

Thine  ever,  MILTON. 

"  Here's  her  answer  to  the  above  one : 

CINCINNATI,  Nov.  23. 1880. 

DEAREST  MILTON:— Tour  cherished  missive  is  be- 
fore me.  You  forgot  to  send  a  ticket.  But  as  I  see 
you  are  to  play  here  in  two  weeks,  you  can  send  me 
your  plays,  and  I  can  pick  out  the  characters  I  like 


132  Stage  Aspirants. 

best,  and  join  you  when  you  get  here.  I  have  a 
splendid  memory,  and  could  study  the  flower  girl  in 
two  or  three  weeks  easy  enough.  I  think  I  would  play 
that,  as  my  friends  would  object  to  my  acting  the  one 
that  wears  the  boy's  clothes.  Send  the  play  quick. 

What  do  you  pay  ? 

As  ever,  OLIVIA. 

"I  replied  by  express.  I  sent  her  a  San 
Francisco  directory  for  72,  a  MSS.  of  '  The 
Wreck  Ashore,"  a  bottle  of  gargling  oil  and  one 
of  Bob  IngersolFs  lectures.  I  told  her  I  wanted 
her  bad;  'to  hitch  onto  hope'  and  wait  for 
me.  In  this  world  or  the  next,  she  must  be 
mine.  I  rejoiced  that  it  was  a  pure  love  of  art, 
and  not  drink,  that  had  driven  her  to  the  stage. 
I  told  her  to  meet  me  in  front  of  the  postoffice 
at  2  A.  M.  Sunday,  February  30,  1887.  This 
arrangement  evidently  was  satisfactory.  I 
haven't  heard  from  her  since." 


emp, 


A  CHAT  WITH  THE  BRAKEMAN. 


took  the  west-bound  train  at 
Cedar  Rapids  on  a  bitter  night 
in  January.  I  seated  myself  in 
the  smoking  room  for  a  little  chat  with  the  boys 
before  seeking  my  berth.  The  brakeman,  well 
dressed,  intelligent  fellow  of  about  thirty,  slipped 
in  and  took  a  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  wash 
basins  after  the  train  had  pulled  out.  From 
my  seat  in  the  smoking  room  I  could  see  his 
face.  It  was  a  remarkable  bright  face.  Full 
of  intelligence  and  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  the 
eye,  which  often  revealed  itself  as  he  caught 
the  points  of  the  chestnuts  which  the  boys  were, 
as  usual,  retailing  between  cigar  puffs.  Pres- 
ently he  took  a  camp  stool  and  seated  himself 
by  the  door  of  the  smoking  room.  I  liked  his 
face,  and,  during  a  lull  in  the  story-telling,  asked 
him  how  he  could  stand  brakeing  in  such 
weather  without  an  overcoat.  "  0,"  he  replied, 
"  I'm  dressed  warm  underneath,  and  these  uni- 


134  A  Chat  with  the  Srakeman. 

form  coats  are  very  heavy  and  warm,  as  they 
don't  allow  overcoats." 

"  It's  pretty  rough  weather  for  railroading,"  I 
suggested. 

"  O,  yes,  but  then  some  one  has  to  do  it.  We 
wouldn't  appreciate  the  good  weather  if  we  had 
it  all  the  time." 

"  Have  you  been  railroading  long  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  all  my  life,  and  my  father  rail- 
roaded before  me.  I  don't  know  why — it's  hard 
work  and  small  pay — but  there's  something 
about  it  that  holds  a  man  there  once  he  gets 
there."  Just  then  we  pulled  by  a  long  freight 
train  which  was  side-tracked.  The  night  was 
bitter  cold,  and  the  brakemen  on  the  freight 
train  were  hurrying  from  car  to  car,  swinging 
lanterns,  setting  brakes,  and  climbing  up  and 
down  the  sides  of  the  ice-covered  cars.  "  Look 
at  those  fellows  out  there.  They  get  forty  dol- 
lars a  month,  barely  enough  to  keep  them  from 
starvation,  for  many  of  them  have  families. 
They  scarcely  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  good 
night's  rest  in  a  comfortable  bed,  or  the  luxury 
of  a  square,  wholesome  meal.  Yet  there  they 
are  year  after  year,  facing  the  hail,  sleet  and 
blizzards  until  they  break  down,  get  marked 


A  Chat  with  the  Brakeman.  135 

up,  or  lose  a  leg  or  an  arm,  and  then  they  dis- 
appear, the  Lord  only  knows  where,  and  their 
children  follow  in  their  wake.  But  you  couldn't 
drive  'em  into  anything  else,  that's  the  funny 
part  of  it.  I  suppose  every  freight  brakeman 
thinks  that  sooner  or  later  he  will  be  a  conduc- 
tor, and  eventually  get  a  passenger  train.  We 
all  know  that  there  are  railroad  presidents  and 
superintendents  who  began  as  brakemen,  and 
the  biggest  lunk  head  in  the  world  is  entirely 
satisfied  with  himself,  and  hangs  on  waiting  for 
his  chance  to  make  himself  solid  with  the 
superintendent.  But  railroading  ain't  what  it 
used  to  be." 

I  ventured  that  I  fancied  there  had  been  a 
wonderful  advance  toward  perfection  in  rail- 
roading during  the  past  twenty  years. 

"0,  yes,  of  course,"  replied  the  brakeman, 
"  in  the  way  of  speed,  comfort,  elegance  and  all 
that,  but  what  I  mean  is  that  the  position  of 
conductor  on  a  passenger  amounts  to  nothing 
now.  In  the  old  days  once  a  man  got  a  pas- 
senger train  on  a  good  Eastern  road  he  could 
make  himself  solid  for  life  in  a  year  or  two. 
Of  course,  the  stockholders  didn't  do  so  well, 
but  the  conductor,  if  he  was  clever,  always 


136  A   Chat  with  the  Brakeman. 

turned  in  enough  to  make  a  good  showing,  and 
the  superintendent  would  stand  it  rather  than 
risk  a  change.  Sometimes  one  of  the  old  con- 
ductors would  get  so  avaricious  that  he  couldn't 
bear  to  divide,  and  off  his  head  would  go,  but 
he  was  pretty  sure  to  have  a  snug  home  in  the 
city  and  a  fine  country  seat  and  a  few  thousand 
in  bank,  before  he  tried  the  grand  wolf  act. 
You'd  be  astonished  if  you  knew  the  number 
of  old  New  York  Central  conductors  who  are 
now  retired  capitalists,  raising  large  families 
and  attending  church  and  prayer-meeting  regu- 
larly twice  a  week,  and  all  saved  on  seventy-five 
dollars  a  month.  But  the  new  fangled  notions 
that  came  in  with  the  Vanderbilts  and  Goulds 
knocked  blazes  out  of  the  old  style  of  getting 
rich  quick.  The  slip  system  was  a  good  thing 
for  the  stockholders,  but  it  was  rough  on  the 
conductors.  You  see  the  great  incentive  that 
drew  a  splendid  body  of  men  into  the  service 
was  removed.  That's  why  you  find  so  many 
insignificant  chumps  running  passenger  trains. 
Anybody  is  good  enough  for  a  conductor  now." 


"SARY." 


JKNEW  her  name  was  Sarah  by  reason 
of  the  proprietor  calling  out  "  Sary  I  " 
when  I  entered  and  seated  myself  at 
the  table.  It  was  just  after  daylight,  on  a 
bright  October  morning.  We  had  come  down 
on  the  early  train  from  Eureka,  Nevada,  to 
Palisades,  to  take  the  overland  train  on  the 
U.  P.  for  San  Francisco.  Across  the  road  from 
the  little  station  house  was  a  rough  board 
shanty  where  the  Eureka  passengers  could 
breakfast  before  the  arrival  of  the  overland.  I 
was  first  to  enter,  and,  seating  myself  near  the 
open  door,  looked  about  for  the  inevitable 
Chinaman,  and  was  somewhat  surprised  when 
the  burly  proprietor  called  out  "  Sary."  If  the 
calling  of  her  name  was  a  surprise  to  me,  the 
appearance  of  "Sary"  herself  was  in  the  nature 
of  a  revelation.  After  an  intervening  period  of 
seven  busy  years  I  approach  Sarah  with  terpi- 
dation,  a  lack  of  confidence,  as  it  were,  in  my 
ability  to  do  full  justice  to  the  subject.  Sarah 


138  "Sary." 

entered  through  a  rough  board  door  in  the 
rear  of  the  room,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  to 
measure  her  graceful  outlines  as  she  ap- 
proached. She  was  about  five  feet  eight  inches 
in  height,  and  pretty  much  one  size  the  entire 
length.  This  much  I  saw  at  a  glance.  As  she 
busied  herself  at  an  adjoining  table,  collecting 
a  plate,  knife  and  fork,  glass  of  water  and  a 
paper  napkin,  I  had  time  to  take  a  furtive  in- 
ventory of  her  various  effects.  Her  hair  was  a 
dead,  dusty  red,  parted  in  the  middle  and 
combed  straight  back  with  great  care  and 
scrupulous  neatness,  and  tied  in  a  miniature 
Psyche  knot.  Her  face  was  a  mass  of  freckles. 
Her  nose  was  very  short,  and  a  pronounced 
pug.  Her  cheek  bones  high,  large  chin,  and 
small,  almost  colorless  eyes.  Her  lips  were 
very  thin,  giving  a  severe  business-like  expres- 
sion to  her  face,  and  Sarah  was  "business" 
from  the  word  go.  Her  hands  were  large  and 
bony.  She  wore  a  calico  frock,  gathered  at  the 
waist,  but  owing  to  Sarah's  peculiar  physical, 
proportions,  the  gathering  wasn't  much  to 
speak  of.  A  novice  could  readily  discover  that 
Sarah  scorned  those  matters  of  artificial  adorn- 
ment common  to  her  sex.  Aside  from  the 


-       "Sary."  139 

calico  frock,  Sarah's  wearing  apparel  was  of 
the  most  primitive  and  economical  character. 
Corset  and  bustle  represented  unknown  quan- 
tities in  her  make-up.  At  the  first  glance 
I  thought  her  a  man  in  petticoats,  or  rather  in 
a  calico  slip.  But  I  was  wrong.  She  banged 
the  plate  down  in  front  of  me,  chucked  the 
knife,  fork  and  spoon  after  it,  dropped  the 
tumbler  of  water  on  my  starboard  side  (such  of 
it  as  escaped  my  lap  and  the  oil-cloth  table 
cover),  and  then  she  spoke.  Whatever  years 
may  do  in  the  matter  of  effacing  the  minor  de- 
tails of  scene,  natural  and  architectural  sur- 
roundings, time  can  never  obliterate  from  my 
memory  the  impression  made  by  Sarah's  voice, 
and  the  expressive  eloquence  of  her  first  vocal 
effort.  It  struck  me  as  though  shot  from  a 
Derringer.  This  is  what  she  said : 

"  Beef  steak  er  harnmen  neggs  er  liver'n 
bacon?" 

I  paused  a  moment  to  collect  my  scattered 
thoughts  and  said,  mildly,  "  hammen  neggs." 

"Straight  up  er  turned  over  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  I  said,  apologetically. 

"Straight  up  er  turned  over!"  repeated 
Sarah  with  added  severitv. 


140  "  Sary." 

"Which?  Where?  What  is  it?"  I  asked  dif- 
fidently. 

"Eggs I  eggs!  Wantcher  eggs  straight  up 
er  turned  over  ?  " 

"I — oh,  yes,  I  see,  boiled  please,  straight 
up." 

With  a  look  of  withering  contempt  Sarah 
strode  to  the  rear  door,  and  I  heard  my  order 
delivered  as  follows  :  "  One  hammen  neggs  'n 
coflee.  By  this  time  several  others  had  taken 
seats  at  the  various  tables.  Poor  Lonny 
Schwartz,  who  was  very  fat  and  very  sleepy, 
selected  a  seat  at  a  table  directly  opposite  to 
mine.  Sarah  returned  and  comrnensed  shoot- 
ing off  her  little  speech  at  each.  The  ex- 
pressions on  the  different  faces  as  Sarah's 
"  beefsteak  er  hammen  neggs  er  liver  'n  bacon  " 
struck  them  was  an  amusing  study.  But  the 
second  shot,  the  "  straight  up  er  turned  over," 
was  the  one  that  seemed  to  rivet  the  attention  of 
all.  Each  repetition  would  be  followed  by  a 
momentary  pause.  Then  the  victim  would 
look  up  amiably,  but  meeting  the  awful  se- 
verity of  Sarah's  countenance,  the  smile  would 
fade  away  and  an  order  would  be  given  in  a 
lamb-like  tone.  There  was  a  provincial  bridal 


"Sary."  141 

couple  at  the  opposite  side  of  my  own  table, 
and  I  shall  never  ibrget  their  embarrassment 
when  Sarah  sprung  her  second  question 
on  them.  Schwartz  had  dropped  his  chin 
upon  his  breast  and  was  sweetly  sleeping  when 
Sarah  opened  with  her  "  beefsteak  er  hainrnen 
negs  er  liver  'n  bacon."  But  Lonny  was  too 
far  gone,  and  Sarah  jabbed  him  in  the  neck 
with  the  butt-end  of  a  fork  and  shot  it  off 
again.  Lonny  looked  up  indignantly,  but  one 
glance  at  Sarah's  face  banished  his  indigna- 
tion, and  he  ordered  "liver  and  bacon  and 
eggs." 

"  Straight  up  er  turned  over  ?  " 

"  Eh,  what's  that  ?  " 

"  Straight  up  er  turned  over  ?  " 

"Who?  When?  What  for?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  "  asked  Schwartz,  now  fully  awake, 

"  Howje  want  yer  eggs,  straight  up  er  turned 
over?" 

"  Oh !     Straight  up." 

An  oppressive  stillness  now  prevailed.  The 
waiting  guests  exchanged  glances  with  faint 
smiles.  The  humor  of  the  situation  had  forced 
itself  upon  all,  but  none  seemed  to  have 
the  courage  to  laugh  outright  and  so  relievo 


142  "  Sari,." 

the  feeling  of  painful  restraint.  The  silence 
became  more  oppressive  with  each  succeeding 
moment,  and  was  only  relieved  by  the  arrival 
of  Sarah  with  my  order,  which  she  dumped  m 
silence  and  strode  to  the  kitchen  for  the  next. 
Swartz's  order  had  been  given  last,  and  long 
before  it  arrived  he  was  again  sleeping  sound- 
ly. Finally  it  arrived  and  was  safely  landed. 
The  rattling  of  the  dishes  woke  the  comedian. 
"  Here's  your  breakfast,  wake  up,"  said  Sarah 
savagely. 

Lonny  cast  a  hurried  glance  at  the  dishes 
and  missed  his  principal  order. 

"  Hold  on,"  said  the  comedian,  "  you  forgot 
my  liver  and  bacon." 

"  Sarah  gave  him  a  savage  look  and  started 
for  the  kitchen.  The  stillness  was  now  par- 
tially relieved  by  the  rattling  of  the  knives 
and  forks.  Presently  Sarah  returned  with  a 
solitary  plate  in  her  hand  and  dashed  it  down 
in  front  of  the  fat  comedian,  exclaiming : 

"  There's  your  bacon  and  the  cook  says  he'll 
have  yer  liver'n  a  minute." 

Lonny's  eyes  opened  wildly  and  the  long- 
suppressed  volume  of  laughter  burst  forth  in 
mighty  roars. 


THE  MISSION  OF  THE  THEATRE. 


HAT  volumes  of  high  sounding 
nonsense  have  been  written  and 
spoken  upon  "  The  Mission  of 
the  Theatre,"  "The  elevation  of  the  Stage," 
"  The  Purification  of  the  Drama,  etc."  For  a 
half  dozen  centuries,  more  or  less,  the  subject 
of  the  true  function  of  the  Drama  has  been  re- 
vived with  a  regularity  so  chronic  that  it  may 
be  said  never  to  have  ceased.  A  few  years 
since  some  eminent  canons  of  the  Established 
Church  and  some  equally  eminent  actors,  among 
them  Henry  Irving,  met  in  friendly  discussion 
in  Manchester,  during  which  the  former  ex- 
pressed a  willingness  to  patronize  and  encourage 
a  "purified  drama"  as  a  "high  moral  teacher." 
And  in  my  humble  judgment,  right  here  is  the 
gulf  into  which  the  self-constituted  "reformers" 
of  the  drama  plunge.  The  idea  that  any  sane 
person  goes,  or  ever  will  go,  to  the  theatre  to 
listen  to  a  moral  lecture  or  theological  essay  is 
simple  rot.  The  drama  belongs  essentially  to 
the  domain  of  art,  not  ethics.  People  don't  go 


144  The  Mission  of  the  Theatre. 

to  church  to  laugh  (I  am  not  shaken  in  this 
conviction  by  the  fact  that  one  eminent  Brook- 
lyn divine  does  not  share  it) ;  neither  do  they 
go  to  the  art  galleries  or  the  theatre  to  pray. 
The  actor  and  his  art  have  their  sphere — a 
sphere  that  has  nothing  in  common  and  noth- 
ing necessarily  in  conflict  with  the  theologian 
or  the  inculcator  of  moral  philosophy.  The 
church  is  an  inherent  part  of  our  civilization, 
the  drama  and  kindred  arts  are  the  necessary 
products  of  oar  culture.  The  representation  of 
the  beauty,  the  pathos,  the  sublimity  in  nature 
and  in  human  character  is  the  legitimate  aim 
of  art,  and  when  this  is  successfully  consum- 
mated there  must  of  necessity  be  a  moral  of 
greater  or  less  significance — but  when  the  artist 
deliberately  constructs  his  work  with  a  view  of 
pointing  a  moral,  he  violates  the  canons  of  art. 
"  If,"  says  Emerson,  "  the  eye  was  made  for  see- 
ing, then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 
And  in  like  strain  Tennyson  sings : 

"  O,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 
The  wild  wood  flower  that  simply  blows, 

Or  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ?" 

I  think  it  an  assertion  susceptible  of  proof, 
that  no  truly  great  work  of  art,  whether  in 


The  Mission  of  the  Theatre.  145 

painting,  sculpture  or  literature,  has  for  its  pur- 
pose and  main  characteristic  a  definite  moral 
lesson  capable  of  being  expressed  in  didactic 
form.  All  such  works  appeal  directly  to  the 
sense  of  the  beautiful  or  sublime.  A  great 
tragedy  moves  us  to  wonder,  pity  or  terror ;  it 
excites  strong  emotion  and  produces  a  peculiar 
exaltation  of  spirit,  which  may  indeed  exert  a 
powerful  moral  effect ;  though  that  was  not  the 
immediate  end  proposed  by  the  dramatist.  Peo- 
ple go  to  theatres  for  amusement,  diversion,  ex- 
citement. They  want  to  be  lifted  for  the  mo- 
ment out  of  the  dullness  and  pettiness  of  rou- 
tine, out  of  the  atmosphere  of  daily  life,  into  a 
region  of  poetry,  romance  and  adventure.  They 
want  to  escape  for  a  time  from  dull  common- 
place realities,  and  to  be  refreshed  by  glimpses 
of  an  ideal  world,  fairer  and  brighter  than  that 
in  which  their  daily  lot  is  cast.  If  it  is  the 
legitimate  object  of  art  to  strengthen  or  to 
teach,  that  object  must  be  attained  indirectly. 
Its  first  and  nearest  object  is  to  charm  and  to  de- 
light. That  dramatist  or  "reformer"  will  live 
unrecognized  and  die  unsung  who  writes  and 
argues  from  the  mistaken  thesis  that  a  play 
should  be  a  sermon  in  disguise. 


"flND  THE  YILUIN  STILL  PURSUED  HER." 


I  ROB  ABLY  no  current  catch  phrase  has 
been  more  widely  quoted  during  the 
past  fifteen  years  than  the  above  quo- 
tation. It  is  safe  to  say  that  it  is  in  daily  use 
at  the  present  time  wherever  the  English  lan- 
guage is  spoken  and,  like  many  popular  quota- 
tions, it  is  used  by  hundreds  of  people  who 
are  in  ignorance  of  its  source.  In  1875, 
in  Philadelphia,  my  play  of  THE  PHCENIX  was 
originally  produced.  It  was  a  dramatization 
by  myself  of  a  serial  in  one  of  the  flash  story 
papers.  It  had  previously  been  dramatized  by 
the  author,  and  played  throughout  the  country 
under  different  titles  until  it  was  supposed  to 
have  exhausted  its  usefulness  for  dramatic  pur- 
poses. At  this  time,  January,  1875,  I  held  the 
position  of  "leading  man"  at  Col.  Wood's 
Museum,  then  one  of  the  leading  theatres  of 
Philadelphia.  Owing  to  a  week's  bad  business 
the  "  Col."  notified  the  company  that  salaries 
were  to  be  reduced.  I  resigned  my  position 


"  And  the  Villain  Still  Pursued  Her."    147 

rather  than  accept  the  reduction,  and  arranged 
amicably  for  a  "  farewell  benefit."  At  this  ben- 
efit THE  PHOENIX,  originally  christened  "  Jim 
Bludso,"  had  its  first  representation.  The  caste 
included  as  principals,  beside  the  writer,  Annie 
Ward  Tiffany,  Emma  Maddern,  Agnes  Proctor, 
Robert  Wilson,  George  Charles,  William  Dav- 
idge  and  J.  H.  Anderson.  The  story- writing 
incident — the  one  original  thing  in  the  play  (if 
we  except  the  young  stage  Hebrew  of  to-day, 
who  owes  his  dramatic  existence  to  this  old 
play),  was  entirely  an  afterthought.  The  absurd 
language  and  grotesque  situations  evolved  by 
the  writers  of  dime  novels  had  always  seemed 
excruciatingly  funny  to  me,  and  I  had  often 
thought  them  a  fine  subject  for  stage  satire  of 
a  broad  kind,  but  not  until  twenty-four  hours 
preceding  the  production  of  the  play  had  I 
thought  seriously  of  utilizing  it.  Indeed,  the 
Bohemian  had  not  even  figured  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  play,  my  character  in  the  first 
act  being  instead,  that  of  a  seedy,  dissipated 
lawyer,  a  character  entirely  serious.  Uncle 
Ben  Baker  was  our  stage  manager  and,  during 
the  second  rehearsal  of  the  piece,  I  called  him 
aside  and  read  him  the  stuff  I  had  got  together, 


148      "  And  the  Villain  Still  Pursued  Her." 

to  see  what  he  thought  of  it.  As  I  proceeded 
Uncle  Ben's  genial  smile  broadened  into  a  grin, 
which  ended  in  a  genuine  laugh.  That  settled 
it.  That  afternoon  I  re-wrote  my  character  in  the 
prologue,  making  him  a  tipsy,  seedy  Bohemian 
story  writer,  for  the  purpose  of  ringing  in  the 
little  experiment,  for  so  I  still  regarded  it.  The 
rest  is  stage  history.  The  old  play,  in  its 
new  dress,  was  a  pronounced  success,  owing, 
everybody  declared,  to  the  story  writing  in- 
cident. The  Grand  Central  Theatre  (Phila- 
delphia) gave  me  a  handsome  sum  for  a 
two  weeks'  run,  and  put  the  play  on  in 
fine  shape.  Before  a  week  was  over  the 
street-gamins  had  taken  up  the  refrain  "and 
the  villain  still  pursued  her."  The  repor- 
ters, who  seldom  visited  the  Central  to  see  a 
drama,  were  soon  out  in  force,  and  the  local 
colums  of  the  press  caught  up  the  phrase.  It 
drew  thousands  of  people  to  the  theatre  who 
had  never  before  entered  a  "  novelty  "  theatre. 
I  received  offers  for  engagements,  which  fol- 
lowed rapidly  in  New  York,  Brooklyn, 
Baltimore,  Washington,  etc.  Simrnonds  & 
Slocum's  Minstrels,  a  permanent  enterprise, 
were  at  the  time  located  at  their  Arch 


"  And  the  Villain  Still  Pursued  Her."     149 

Street  Opera  House.  George  Thatcher  was 
a  member  of  the  company.  George  was 
young,  intelligent,  ambitious,  and  always  on 
the  lookout  for  local  topics  to  utilize  in 
his  quaint  songs  and  sayings.  He  promptly 
seized  on  "the  villain  still  pursued  her,"  and 
worked  it  into  a  song,  which  he  has  made 
famous.  Two  or  three  years  later  he  went 
overland  with  Haverly's  Minstrels,  and  when 
I  took  the  trip  with  my  own  company  the  year 
following,  Colorado  and  California  papers  asked 
why  I  gave  Thatcher's  gag  line  so  much 
prominence  in  my  printing.  Numerous  other 
minstrel  men  followed  with  noisy,  witless  imi- 
tations of  Thatcher's  quaint  song.  I  remember 
one  of  them,  named  DeVere,  met  me  in  a 
Brooklyn  street  car  while  I  was  playing  an  en- 
gagement in  that  city,  and  asked  me  if  I  was 
singing  his  song  in  my  piece,  as  he  saw  it 
mentioned  in  the  synopsis.  Only  four  or  five 
years  ago  I  went  to  Montreal  for  the  first  time. 
A  local  critic,  a  very  wise  and  patronizing  young 
man,  asked  my  agent,  Mr.  Murray,  why  I 
quoted  the  line  so  extensively  in  my  printing. 
He  laughed  inordinately  when  modestly  in- 
formed that  I  was  generally  supposed  to  be  the 


150      "  And  the  Villain  Still  Pursued  Her." 

author  of  the  phrase.  "  What  nonsense,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  why  I  have  been  using  it  in  my 
locals  for  ten  years."  "  Yes,"  replied  Murray, 
"that's  about  the  age  of  it."  The  reporter 
laughed  heartily,  and  said  he  had  met  and  read 
about  cheeky  agents,  but  this  was  the  climax. 
"  By  the  way,"  asked  Murray,  "  if  Nobles  didn't 
write  it,  who  did  ?  "  A  painful  stillness  ensued 
during  which  the  reporter  discovered  that  he 
didn't  just  remember.  "However,"  he  said, 
"  'tis  as  good  as  sure  that  it's  somewhere  in 
Dickens'.  I'll  look  it  up  before  your  star  gets 
here  and  be  ready  for  him."  "  Do,"  said  the 
agent,  "  and  spring  it  on  him  the  morning  after 
he  opens.  Nobles  will  enjoy  the  joke  as  heart- 
ily as  any  one." 

As  it  was  not  "  sprung  "  on  me  during  my 
Montreal  engagement,  I  presume  the  reporter 
didn't  find  time  to  run  through  his  Dickens. 


STAGE  ANECDOTES. 


WELL  known  actor  named 
was  some  years  since  a  member  of 
the  stock  company  at  Mrs.  Drew's 
Arch  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia.  On  a  cer- 
tain occasion  he  was  very  imperfect  and  substi- 
tuted much  of  his  own  language,  of  rather  a 
poor  quality,  for  that  of  the  author.  He  got 
through,  however,  and  went  into  the  green- 
room to  shake  hands  with  himself.  Mrs.  Drew, 
who  had  been  in  her  box  during  his  worst 
scene,  quietly  followed  him  into  the  room  un- 

perceived.     L swelled  up  in  front  of  the 

mirror,  stroked  his  black  moustache,  and  de- 
livered himself  something  after  this  fashion: 

«  L you  handsome  cuss,  you  always  get 

there,  don't  you  ?     Can't  stick  you.     You  didn't 
speak  much  of  the  author,  but  you  gave  them 

plenty  of  L ,  and  they  didn't  know  the 

difference."     "Do  you  think  so?"  came  in  the 
tragic  tones  of  Mrs.  Drew  from  the  open  door. 


152  Stage  Anecdotes. 

L turned  around  aghast.     "I  desire  to 

congratulate  you,  Mr.  L ."     "  Oh,  indeed, 

thank  you,"  replied  L ,  now  quite  at  ease. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Drew,  "  I  desire  to 
congratulate  you  upon  the  fact  that  Lindley 
Murray  was  not  in  front,"  and  she  swept  out  of 
the  room. 

"  Lindley  Murray,"  repeated  L turning 

to  Mrs.  Jamieson,  "  who  the  dickens  is  Lindley 
Murray,  one  of  the  stockholders?" 


"PICKLES." 

THE  late  Barney  Macauley  was  a  man  of 
strong  individuality  and  pronounced  traits. 
Barney's  profanity  was  a  specialty.  About 
1874,  among  the  army  of  supers  at  Wood's 
Theatre  was  a  long,  lank  six-foot  gawk,  known 
to  the  stage  hands  as  Pickles.  Pickles  gradu- 
ated from  supe  to  assistant  "props."  Pickles 
was  as  slim  as  a  rail.  His  hair  was  red  and  his 
face  freckled.  His  eyes  were  small  and  his  nose 
was  large.  He  wore  a  6J  hat  and  a  No.  10 
boot,  and  his  hands  looked  like  a  pair  of  hams. 


Stage  Anecdotes.  153 

But  Pickles  soon  developed  a  specialty.  He 
had  a  genius  for  falling  over  furniture  during 
quiet  scenes.  The  stage  at  Wood's  was  small, 
and  Pickles'  feet  were  out  of  proportion  to  his 
surroundings.  Pickles  particularly  distin- 
guished himself  on  the  first  night  that  he  as- 
sisted "  props."  Clara  Morris  was  playing  Ca- 
mille, the  dishes,  wine  glasses  and  remnants  of 
the  supper  scene  had  been  carefully  piled  on  a 
large  tray,  and  placed  in  the  property  room. 
During  the  closing  scene  of  the  play,  and  at 
the  moment  when  the  dying  Camille,  with  a 
convulsive  sob  sinks  upon  Armand's  breast,  the 
death-like  stillness  of  the  scene  was  broken  by 
an  unearthly  crash.  Pickles  had  gathered  up 
the  tray  of  dishes  to  return  them  to  the  restau- 
rant, and  as  Camille  through  her  flowing  tears 
cried,  "  0  Armand !  Armand  !  you  have  come?" 
Pickles  fell  over  one  of  his  feet  and  was  buried 
under  the  wreck  of  broken  china.  Macauley, 
who  was  in  a  box  crying  like  a  big  school-boy, 
rushed  back  to  Mehen.  "  What  in  h — 1  was 
that  ?  "  thundered  Macauley.  "  What  ?  "  asked 
Mehen,  who  was  crying  over  the  prompt  book. 
"That  d — d  crash,  that  earthquake,"  yelled 
Macauley.  "  Oh,  I  guess  it  was  Pickles,"  said 


154  Stage  Anecdotes. 

Mehen.  "Pickles?"  roared  Macauley,  "who 
in  h— 1  is  Pickles?"  "Why,  he's  Props7  new 
assistant."  "Where  is  he?  where  is  he?" 
shouted  Barney,  rushing  for  the  property  room, 
but  Pickles  had  heard  the  signals  of  danger, 
and  made  his  escape  to  the  fly-gallery. 

A  few  weeks  later,  a  new  emotional  drama 
was  being  played.  Macauley  was  in  the  cast, 
doing  the  wronged  husband  business.  «At  the 
end  of  one  of  the  acts,  there  was  a  child's  death 
scene.  The  little  flaxen-haired  candidate  for 
angelic  honors  had  just  began  to  see  and  hear 
things  after  the  manner  of  all  well-regulated 
stage  deaths.  Barney  as  the  wronged  husband 
and  suffering  father,  was  kneeling  by  the  bed- 
side. "  See !  papa,  see !  "  said  the  dying  inno- 
cent, "0,  what  beautiful  children  with  long, 
golden  hair,  and  wings  like  the  rainbows,  and 
now  they  sing  so  sweetly — listen  papa,  listen ! 
and  tell  me  what  you  hear."  At  that  moment, 
Pickles,  who  had  been  struggling  to  get  an  old 
bureau  down  stairs  into  the  store-room,  got  his 
feet  tangled  and  fell  down  stairs  backwards  and 
the  bureau  after  him.  Barney  raised  himself 
to  his  full  six  feet  two  beside  his  dying  child 
and  answered,  "  Pickles,  by  the  Gods ! " 


Stage  Anecdotes.  155 

MR.  J.  DUKE  MURRAY,  the  popular  business 
manager,  who,  as  is  well  known,  is  the  lineal  de- 
scendant of  a  line  of  Scottish  kings,  was  an 
actor  before  joining  the  great  army  of  "  press 
workers,"  "  star  makers,"  and  "  fame  builders." 

When  I  say  that  he  was  an  actor,  I  should 
probably  qualify  the  statement,  as  there  seems 
to  be  conflicting  opinions  upon  the  subject — 
however,  Duke  used  to  play  parts,  principally 
low  comedy.  About  twenty  years  ago  Duke 
was  working  "  props  "  and  doing  "  utility  "  with 
a  western  traveling  company.  The  manage- 
ment put  up  the  SEA  OF  ICE,  and  found  them- 
selves short  of  a  Captain  DeLascour. 

Duke  was  six  feet  three,  and  as  thin  as  a  rail, 
but  the  manager  concluded  that  with  judicious 
padding  Duke  would  make  an  imposing  figure 
as  the  heroic  captain  of  the  Urania.  It  was  the 
most  important  character  "props"  had  ever 
been  cast  for,  but  his  ambition  was  equal  to  the 
emergency.  The  company  had  three  or  four 
days  in  which  to  study  and  rehearse  the  piece. 
The  captain  has  one  speech  that  always,  in  the 
language  of  the  rural  critic,  "  brings  down  the 
house."  When  he  learns  that  his  crew  has 
mutinied,  and  that  not  only  his  noble  ship 


156  Stage  Anecdotes. 

but  the  lives  of  his  wife  and  child  are  at  the 
mercy  of  the  young  Spanish  adventurer,  in 
wild  desperation  he  cries,  "  Monster,  take  my 
life,  but  spare,  0,  spare  my  wife  and  child !  " 

Duke,  whose  efforts  had  up  to  this  time  been 
confined  to  making  announcements  and  doing 
the  big  policeman  who  comes  on  when  the  row 
is  over  and  drags  off  a  small  boy,  felt  that  his 
opportunity  had  come  at  last,  and  visions  of 
"leading  juveniles"  at  McVicker's  floated 
dimly  before  him.  The  leader  of  the  orchestra 
was  Duke's  room-mate,  and  like  all  leaders  he 
knew  all  about  acting,  or  thought  he  did,  and 
began  coaching  Duke  for  the  great  event. 

They  were  playing  in  Iowa  City  that  week  at 
the  old  Ham's  Hall.  Duke  and  the  leader  had 
a  room  on  the  top  floor  of  the  St.  James  Hotel, 
and  when  they  got  in  at  night  and  commenced 
rehearsing  the  great  scene,  the  landlord  thought 
the  house  had  been  struck  by  a  blizzard.  All 
of  the  guests  on  the  second  floor  came  down  to 
the  office  in  their  night  shirts,  and  one  nervous 
man  made  a  rope  of  the  bed  clothing  and  let 
himself  down  to  the  street.  The  landlord  got 
a  step-ladder  and  looked  over  the  transom. 
Hogan,  the  leader,  was  seated  on  the  window- 


Stage  Anecdotes.  157 

sill,  book  in  hand.  Two  candles  and  five  empty 
beer  bottles  \\  ere  ranged  across  a  corner  of  the 
room  to  represent  foot-lights,  and  the  embryo 
tragedian  (clad  in  a  solitary  garment,  abreviated 
as  to  length),  was  striding  wildly  about  the 
little  garret  after  the  manner  of  a  caged  lion. 

The  eventful  night  arrived.  Hogan  had  im- 
pressed his  pupil  with  the  importance  of  not 
acting  at  the  regular  rehearsals.  "Walk 
through  at  rehearsal "  he  would  say,  "  hold 
yourself  for  the  night,  and  then  paralyze  ?em." 

Duke  felt  his  fame  assured.  At  the  last 
rehearsal  he  called  the  manager  aside  and 
asked :  "  If  I  make  a  success  of  this  part  will 
you  raise  my  salary  ?  " 

"  I  will  try  to  raise  a  part  of  it  for  ye,  me 
boy,"  answered  the  manager. 

The  curtain  rose  on  the  play  fraught  with 
fate.  Hogan  was  on  an  elevated  seat  ready  to 
start  the  applause  whenever  his  pupil  scored  a 
point.  Duke  held  himself  for  his  great  speech. 
The  cue  came.  The  leader  laid  down  his 
fiddle  and  got  ready  to  start  the  applause. 
Duke  gave  him  a  look  which  said  plainly, 
"Keep  your  eye  on  me,  here's  where  I  hog 


158  Stage  Anecdotes. 

"Monster,"  he  roared,  "Monster!  spare  my 
life,  but  take,  0,  take  my  wife  and  child  ! " 

Hogan  fell  off  his  seat  and  upset  the  bass 
fiddler,  the  audience  yelled,  and  the  tragic  scene 
became  a  howling  farce. 


MR.  JOHN  ROGERS,  the  "  hustling  "  manager 
of  Minnie  Palmer,  was  about  twenty  years  ago 
call  boy  at  Wood's  Theatre,  Cincinnati,  under 
the  management  of  the  late  Barney  Macauley. 
John  tried  to  be  an  actor  once,  and  only  once. 
A  drama  was  put  on  which  required  the  full 
strenghth  of  the  company,  and  at  rehearsal  it 
was  found  that  a  small  servant's  character  was 
still  unprovided  for.  Harry  Mehen,  who  was 
stage  manager,  summoned  Rogers  and  told  him 
to  rehearse  it.  He  had  but  one  entrance  and 
one  line  to  speak,  which  was,  "  My  lord,  a  mes- 
senger from  your  honored  father  desires  to  see 
you."  Rogers  was  dumped  into  a  livery  about 
four  sizes  too  large  for  him.  The  collar  of  the 
coat  completely  hid  his  ears,  and  his  hands  were 
lost  in  the  sleeve  somewhere  between  the  cuff 
and  elbow.  The  vest  just  reached  to  his  knees. 
John  paced  up  and  down  behind  the  scenes  for 
an  hour,  going  through  his  solitary  line.  Just 


Stage  Anecdotes.  159 

before  the  time  for  him  to  go  on,  Macauley 
came  back  upon  the  stage  and  caught  a  sight 
of  him.  "  What's  that  ?  "  said  Barney.  "What's 
what?"  asked  Mehen.  "This,"  said  Barney, 
taking  hold  of  Rogers'  coat  collar  and  pulling 
it  completely  over  his  head.  Just  then  "My 
lord "  gave  Rogers  his  cue.  "  That's  you," 
shouted  Mehen,  "  go  on,"  and  Rogers  with  the 
line  frightened  out  of  him  was  pushed  on  the 
stage.  Working  his  head  up  through  his  coat- 
collar,  John  with  his  knees  knocking  together, 
tried  to  speak  his  line,  but  his  tongue  seemed 
glued  to  his  mouth.  Finally,  after  three  or  four 
desperate  efforts,  he  stammered,  "  My  lord — my 

lord — my  lord,  I — I — I  knew  d d  well  I'd 

stick,"  all  in  one  tone.  Macauley,  who  had 
been  standing  in  the  entrance  observing  the 
exhibition,  picked  up  a  ten-foot  scene  brace  and 
reached  for  Rogers,  fixed  the  hook  in  the  end  of 
the  brace  firmly  in  his  coat  collar  and  yanked 
him  off  the  stage,  his  head  entirely  disappear- 
ing under  his  coat.  That  ended  Rogers'  career 
as  an  actor. 

JOHN  E.  OWENS  used  to  tell  the  following 
good  one,  at  his  own  expense.  Many  years 
ago  he  was  touring  the  West.  The  night  fol- 


160  Stage  Anecdotes. 

lowing  a  performance  of  Solon  Shingle  and 
the  Live  Indian  in  an  Indiana  town,  the  com- 
pany took  the  train  for  Indianapolis.  A  hay- 
seed, who  had  evidently  witnessed  the  per- 
formance the  night  before,  spotted  Owens,  and, 
after  sundry  remarks  about  the  weather,  asked 
whether  he  belonged  to  the  "show."  Owens 
answered  that  the  "show"  belonged  to  him, 
which  amounted  to  the  same  thing.  Hayseed 
remarked :  "  I  thought  I  knowed  you,  that's 
why  I  spoke.  You  acted  the  clown  fust  rate. 
Fve  got  a  boy  to  hum  that  'ud  make  a  fust  rate 
clown,  and  I  just  thought  I  kinder  inquire  if 
you  couldn't  give  him  a  job.  He's  just  full  of 
comic  capers,  and  last  night  when  me  and  the 
old  woman  was  a  lookiii'  at  you  cuttin'  up 
monkey-shines,  Martha  said  to  me:  '  Reuben, 
that's  wot  our  boy  ought  to  be  a  doin.'  An 
that's  why  I  mention  it.  I'm  sure  Rube  would 
make  a  fortin'  among  you  clowns,  for  he's  a 
reglar  sort  of  a  natoral  born  dam  fool  any  way." 


McKEAN  BUCHANNAN  was  quite  famous  as  a 
tragedian  of  the  barn  storming  order  some  twenty 
years  ago.  "  Mac,"  as  he  was  familiarly  called, 
was  a  very  successful  poker  player.  It  was  his 


Stage  Anecdotes.  161 

custom  after  paying  salaries  to  his  company  to 
organize  a  friendly  game  of  "draw"  after  the 
play.  It's  needless  to  say  that  the  salaries 
always  found  their  way  back  to  their  original 
source.  It  is  said  that  this  peculiar  managerial 
tactics  enabled  the  tragedian  to  keep  on  the  road 
in  the  face  of  very  bad  business.  C.  W.  Coul- 
dock  once  met  the  tragedian  at  a  small  town  in 
Ohio,  and  engaged  in  a  friendly  set  to  "after  the 
show."  Mac  won  Couldock's  last  dollar,  then 
lent  him  twenty  to  continue  his  journey  arid 
took  his  note.  As  they  were  parting  at  the 
depot,  Buchannan  said:  "Charley,  I  want  to 
play  in  New  York.  I  want  to  show  'em  there 
what  acting  really  is.  Can't  you  give  me  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  some  of  the  managers  ?  " 
"  Why  certainly,"  replied  Couldock,  and  taking 
from  his  pocket  the  blank  leaf  of  a  letter,  he 
penciled  the  following : 

WM.  WHEATLEIGH,  ESQ.,  MANAGER,  NEW  YORK 
CITY: 

DEAR  SIR  :— This  will  introduce  the  eminent  West- 
ern tragedian,  Mr.  McKean  Buchannan.  He  wants  to 
play  in  New  York.  I  have  seen  him  play  Macbeth, 
Eichelieu  and  poker.  He  plays  the  latter  best. 

C.  W.  COULDOCK 


162  Stage  Anecdotes. 

MR.  JOHN  MAGUIRE,  the  Montana  manager, 
was  some  years  ago  manager  of  the  theatre  in 
Portland,  Oregon.  Maguire  had  succeeded  in 
making  an  engagement  with  Lawrence  Barrett 
to  visit  Portland.  The  week  preceding  Barrett's 
engagement,  Maguire  had  his  annual  benefit. 
His  individual  part  of  the  performance  was  a 
recitation  of  "  The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade." 
At  the  end  of  his  "wild  charge"  John  was 
called  in  front  of  the  curtain,  of  course,  to  re- 
ceive his  gold-headed  cane,  etc.  After  thank- 
ing the  mayor  and  fellow-citizens  for  this  "un- 
expected testimonial,"  etc.,  John  proceeded  to 
announce  the  Barrett  engagement,  and  con- 
cluded by  saying  that  "  owing  to  the  great  ex- 
pense attending  this  engagement  it  would  be 
necessary  to  charge  two  dollars  for  reserved 
seats."  Maguire  started  to  bow  himself  off, 
when  a  rich  brogue  from  the  gallery  shouted, 
u  0,  the  woild  charge  tha'  made  I  " 


LOCAL  rivalry  is  supposed  to  have  reached  a 
climax  when  the  Minneapolis  man  got  up  and  ^ 
left  the  church  because  the  preacher  took  his^ 
text  from  St,  P^ul     A  rivalry  about  as  intense 


Stage  Anecdotes.  163 

has  for  years  existed  between  Syracuse  and 
Rochester,  N.  Y.  George  Miln,  the  tragedian, 
was  recently  playing  "  Damon  and  Pythias  "  in 
Rochester.  In  his  first  soliloquy,  Damon  says, 
"There  is  no  public  virtue  left  in  Syracuse," 
the  sentence  had  barely  escaped  his  lips  when 
a  small  boy  in  the  gallery  asked,  "  Wot's  de 
matter  wid  Rochester?"  "O,  she's  all  right," 
echoed  the  entire  gallery,  and  then  the  play 
proceeded. 


WRECKED  GENIUSES. 


LGERNON  ARTHUR  returns  to  his 
native  town  fresh  from  college,  with 
his  mind  resolved  and  his  hair 
banged.  He  has  written  three  poems  and  sev- 
eral essays  for  the  college  monthly,  and  the 
professor  of  Greek  has  assured  him  that  he  is 
destined  to  shine  in  literature  or  journalism. 
He  drops  into  the  office  of  the  Tri-weekly  Palla- 
dium and  reads  his  poems  to  the  editor.  His 
father  is  mayor  of  the  town  and  holds  a  mort- 
gage on  the  Palladium  press,  so  of  course  the 
editor  treats  him  civilly.  During  the  summer 
he  grinds  out  three  or  four  yards  of  doggerel, 
writes  some  society  personals,  evolves  two  or 
three  alleged  humorous  paragraphs  and  touches 
up  the  tariff.  He  is  now  a  journalist.  A  Ro- 
chester daily  desiring  at  short  notice  to  replace 
a  dead  liver-pad  "  ad.,"  has  inadvertently  copied 
one  of  his  poems.  The  editor  of  a  small  maga- 
zine stumbled  across  it,  and  having  probably 


Wrecked  Geniuses.  165 

been  out  late  the  night  before,  fancied  he  de- 
tected a  tho tight  in  it  and  run  it  in  on  the  last 
page  to  fill  an  odd  space  adjoining  a  soap  "  ad/' 
From  here  it  naturally  gravitated  to  the  Palla- 
dium columns,  where  it  was  reproduced  with  a 
glowing  eulogy  of  the  world-famous  author. 

Algernon  now  moved  on  the  metropolis,  his 
head  stuffed  with  thoughtless  flattery,  and  his 
valise  stuffed  with  thoughtless  manuscript.  He 
was  a  little  surprised  at  first  to  find  that  his 
fame  had  not  preceded  him  to  that  extent  which 
he  had  supposed.  His  card  did  not  create  the 
flutter  in  the  magazine  offices  which  he  had  a 
right  to  anticipate.  Indeed,  some  editors  sent 
out  a  boy  to  ask  who  he  was  and  what  he  wanted. 
After  two  or  three  months  spent  in  the  vain 
endeavor  to  secure  a  hearing  in  the  magazines, 
he  commenced  to  work  the  dailies  with  little 
better  success.  Algernon  now  frequently  sought 
;  consolation  in  that  refuge  of  weak  minds,  the 
winecup.  Occasionally  he  worked  a  few  verses 
one  of  the  Sunday  weeklies — then  he  began  in 
doing  space  work  on  street  fights,  small  bur- 
glaries, wife  beaters,  etc.  He  also  neglected  his 
linen  and  shaved  only  semi-occasion  ally. 

The  end  of  a  year  found  him  seedy,  tipsy, 


166  Wrecked  Geniuses. 

dead  broke,  and  a  chronic  beat,  and  his  honest, 
hard-working  associates  were  always  ready  to 
give  him  a  lift.  "  Poor  fellow,  what  a  pity !  " 
"Wonderfully  bright,  if  he  could  let  liquor 
alone."  "Has  written  verses  worthy  of  Swin- 
burne." "Has  the  wild  gifts  of  Poe,  but  can't 
keep  sober."  These  are  the  kind  of  remarks 
frequently  heard.  In  fact,  Algernon  is  now  a 
fully  equipped  Wrecked  Genius. 

In  a  year  or  two  he  will  die  in  the  hospital 
or  inebriate  asylum,  and  if  his  body  escapes  the 
dissecting  knife,  his  good-natured  companions 
will  "  chip  in  "  all  around,  and  stow  him  snugly 
away  in  Cypress  Hill,  and  hold  him  down  with 
a  broken  column. 


AT  the  tender  age  of  six  years,  Raphael 
Du  sen  bury  gave  evidence  of  the  possession  of 
those  gifts  which  were  to  make  his  name  famous 
in  the  world  of  art.  Attention  was  first  at- 
tracted to  those  gifts  by  a  few  humorous  draw- 
ings on  the  fly-leaf  of  his  mother's  prayer-book, 
executed  between  the  "firstly"  and  "lastly"  of 
one  of  the  Rev.  Podgram's  sermons.  At  ten, 
Raphael  had  so  far  developed  as  to  make  copies 


Wrecked  Geniuses.  167 

of  the  most  striking  figures  on  the  circus  posters. 
His  mother  bought  him  an  outfit  of  colors  and 
he  filled  in  the  figures.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  striking  than  the  pink  eyes,  green 
legs  and  blue  hair  with  which  he  adorned  the 
young  lady  who  was  jumping  through  the  hoop 
of  fire.  This  bit  of  art  gave  Master  Raphael 
great  celebrity,  and  probably  had  much  to  do 
with  the  shaping  of  his  career.  He  took  all  the 
prizes  for  drawing  at  the  public  school,  and 
during  his  first  term  at  college,  two  of  his  land- 
scapes were  exhibited  and  raffled  off  at  the  an- 
nual church  fair  in  his  native  town.  One  of 
them  was  won  by  the  clerk  in  the  post-office, 
and  as  he  slept  in  the  office  and  had  no  place 
to  hang  it,  he  lent  it  to  the  postmaster  (who  was 
also  president  of  the  National  Bank),  and  he 
hung  it  in  his  parlor.  The  Young  Ladies'  Aid 
Society  bought  the  other  from  the  colored  man 
who  won  it,  and  voted  it  to  the  editor  of  the 
Weekly  Vindicator. 

The  prominence  thus  given  to  his  earliest 
ambitious  efforts  no  doubt  greatly  enhanced  his 
already  growing  reputation.  He  received  sev- 
eral orders  for  pictures,  among  them  one  from 
the  editor  of  the  Clarion,  and  another  from  the 


168  Wrecked  Geniuses. 

vice-president  of  the  bank.  With  this  power- 
ful recognition  of  his  genius,  Raphael  now  felt 
his  fame  assured,  and  at  the  end  of  his  first 
term  quit  college  and  devoted  himself  entirely 
to  art.  Raphael's  great  specialty  was  rapidity, 
and  during  the  three  months  following  his 
withdrawal  from  college  he  had  painted  several 
yards  of  pictures ;  but  the  demand  for  green 
cows,  blue  trees,  chrome  yellow  water  and  pink 
grass  was  rather  dull,  so  he  cut  the  pictures  off 
into  different  sizes  and  moved  on  the  metropo- 
lis, where  he  felt  sure  of  appreciation. 

He  was  somewhat  astonished  upon  his  arrival 
to  find  the  market  flooded,  and  he  was  hurt 
when  the  art  stores  didn't  seem  anxious  to  frame 
any  of  his  pictures,  and  give  them  conspicuous 
places.  He  hired  a  small  room  and  stored  his 
treasures  under  the  bed,  meantime  continuing 
to  spoil  more  nice,  clean  canvas.  He  made  his 
headquarters  at  a  neighboring  beer  saloon,  and 
as  the  good-natured  Teuton  had  allowed  him 
to  run  a  bill,  he  finally  got  even  by  having 
Raphael  fresco  the  walls.  His  red  windmills, 
green  sky,  blue  peasant  girl  and  babbling  brook 
of  old-gold  water  made  a  sensation,  and  secured 


Wrecked  Geniuses.  169 

him  several   orders  for  similar  specimens  of 
decorative  art. 

But  the  enemy  of  genius  had  marked  him 
for  her  own.  Tortured  by  lack  of  appreciation 
and  stung  by  the  prosperity  of  inferior  rivals, 
his  brilliant  mind  was  almost  constantly  ob- 
scured by  mortification  and  beer.  He  allowed 
his  hair  and  beard  to  grow,  and  with  a  portion 
of  the  proceeds  of  the  beer  saloon  frescoes  he 
bought  a  velvet  coat  and  a  big  hat.  He  also 
got  a  shirt  with  a  large  rolling  collar,  and  began 
gradually  to  work  himself  into  that  state  of 
mental  imbecility  necessary  to  the  successful 
representation  of  a  Wrecked  Genius.  His  in- 
evitable approach  to  this  state  could  be  readily 
detected  by  his  absent-mindedness  in  forgetting 
to  change  his  shirt,  and  his  evident  repugnance 
to  soap  and  water  on  all  occasions.  The  end 
of  the  second  year  finds  him  back  in  his  native 
town — his  velvet  coat  is  faded  and  brown,  his 
beard  is  long,  his  hair  is  matted  and  his  pro- 
boscis blossoms  like  the  rose.  His  poor  old 
mother,  who  is  now  a  widow,  manages  to  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door  by  taking  boarders  in 
the  heavily  mortgaged  homestead.  If  Raphael 
is  occasionally  caught  sober,  he  does  an  odd  bit 


170  Wrecked  Geniuses. 

of  sign-painting  or  frescoes  the  hotel  omnibus, 
but  his  principal  energies  are  devoted  to  hold- 
ing down  a  chair  in  the  beer  saloon,  and  posing 
as  a  Wrecked  Genius. 


MR.  WILLIAM  MCSWEENEY  (Stage  name  T. 
Garrick  Burke),  during  the  "palmy  days"  of 
the  drama  held,  with  credit,  a  minor  position 
in  stock  companies,  playing  in  Pittsburg,  Cin- 
cinnati, Louisville  and  Cleveland.  Mr.  Burke 
was  a  young  man  of  fair  intelligence,  limited 
education  and  talent  enough,  properly  applied, 
to  have  kept  him  steadily  employed  at  a  good 
living  salary,  with  certainty  of  advancement  to 
the  limit  of  his  ability.  Mr.  Burke  had  a  little 
vein  of  humor  which  occasionally  cropped  out 
in  light  comedy  characters.  But  Burke  had 
one  great  talent,  which  was  also  his  greatest 
misfortune.  He  was  a  capital  story-teller  off 
the  stage.  He  was  what  in  the  profession  is 
known  as  a  "  bar-room  comedian,"  a  style  of 
comedian  who  is  immensely  entertaining  off 
the  stage,  but  seldom  funny  on  it.  But  his 
story-telling  and  funny  recitations  gave  him 
great  popularity  with  the  "  gang." 

A  new  drama  was  produced  in  which  a  char- 


Wrecked  Geniwes.  171 

acter  fell  to  Burke  that  seemed  to  have  been 
written  to  fit  his  peculiarities  of  figure,  gesture, 
manner,  speech  and  gait.  It  was  a  dramatic 
affinity  and  he  made  a  great  success.  It  was 
the  turning  point  in  his  career — it  was  such  an 
occasion  as  has  often  happened  and  will  con- 
tinue to  happen  to  stock  actors.  If  the  actor 
has  some  real  ability  and  a  level  head,  it  of 
course  will  make  his  reputation  and  in  many 
cases  his  fortune.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
often  happens,  he  has  little  or  no  real  ability 
and  a  head  susceptible  of  spontaneous  enlarge- 
ment, the  chances  are  that  it  will  eventuate  in 
making  him  a  Wrecked  Genius. 

Burke  captured  the  town  and  was  the  theat- 
rical hero  of  the  hour.  No  thought  was  given 
to  the  experienced  dramatist  who  had  written 
the  bright  lines,  conceived  the  striking  situa- 
tions and  formulated  the  intricate  stage  busi- 
ness— it  was  all  Burke  in  more  senses  than  one, 
for  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  simply  played 
himself.  But  the  general  public,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  man  personally,  accepted  it  as 
a  creation,  and  the  little  inner  circle  had  "  al- 
ways said  Burke  would  get  there  if  he  got  half 
a  chance." 


172  Wrecked  Geniuses. 

The  piece  ran  for  two  weeks,  at  the  end  of 
which  Burke  had  actually  supplanted  the  "  first 
comedian"  in  fickle  popular  favor.  During 
the  second  week  he  asked  for  a  raise  of  salary 
which  was  refused.  Then  he  gave  two  weeks' 
notice.  During  his  last  week,  in  different 
characters,  his  work  ranged  as  usual  from 
mediocre  to  bad.  But  it  was  Burke  and  it 
must  be  funny,  so  everybody  laughed.  Burke 
published  his  press  notices  in  the  theatrical 
journals,  which  consumed  his  season's  savings. 
He  also  announced  that  he  was  open  for 
starring  engagements.  There  was  no  great 
struggle  among  managers  or  capitalists  as  to 
who  should  secure  his  services,  but  he  had 
letters  from  several  authors  who  had  plays  to 
sell. 

Burke  had  now  been  on  a  spree  for  about  ten 
days,  and  his  particular  friends  and  admirers 
had  been  helping  him  along.  He  finally  brought 
up  in  the  station-house,  where  he  sobered  up 
and  found  that  he  was  penniless.  He  tried  to 
borrow  a  few  dollars  from  the  "gang,"  who 
had  been  laughing  at  his  stories  and  swelling 
his  head  with  flattery  and  bad  advice,  but  they 
were  all  terribly  hard  pushed  for  ready  money 


Wrecked  Geniuses.  173 

just  at  that  time.  One  or  two  doled  out  a  pit- 
tance as  though  giving  alms  to  a  beggar.  Then 
one  of  them  suggested  that  he  take  a  benefit. 

The  friend  waited  upon  the  manager  and  the 
latter  reluctantly  gave  up  a  night  for  bare  ex- 
penses, rather  than  antagonize  Burke's  'friends.' 
Then  the  papers  began  to  work  up  the  benefit. 
Of  course  Burke's  great  success  and  sudden 
popularity  was  so  recent  that  the  theatre  would 
not  hold  the  people  and  the  great  local  favorite 
would  start  for  New  York  in  flying  colors  to  or- 
ganize his  starring  tour.  Just  six  weeks  from 
the  night  of  his  great  professional  triumph  his 
benefit  occurred.  Alas!  how  ephemeral  is 
fame.  The  house  was  one-third  filled.  Such 
of  the  "gang"  as  had  received  free  tickets  for 
working  up  the  benefit,  formed  a  noisy  and  con- 
spicuous group  in  a  proscenium  box — the  rest 
were  conspicuous  by  reason  of  their  absence. 
The  benefit  left  Burke  in  debt  to  the  manager 
just  seventy-eight  dollars.  Then  his  fellow- 
players,  who  were  not  geniuses,  but  plain  every- 
day actors,  who  attended  to  their  business,  sup- 
ported their  families  and  avoided  bar-rooms 
and  the  "  gang,"  chipped  in  five  dollars  a  piece 
and  shipped  him  ofl  to  New  York  in  respect- 


174  Wrecked  Geniuses. 

able  shape.  He  had  letters  of  introduction  to 
"critics  "  and  "journalists  "  galore.  In  a  week 
or  two  his  great  talent  as  a  "  bar-room  come- 
dian" had  made  him  very  popular  with  the 
"  gang.  Then  he  got  a  chance  to  do  a  recita- 
tion and  tell  a  few  funny  gags  at  a  big  charity 
benefit.  The  paragraphers  picked  him  up  and 
kept  his  name  constantly  going  the  rounds 
after  this  fashion : 

"The  inimitable  comedian,  Garrick  Burke, 
will  shortly  start  on  his  starring  tour.  This 
famous  comedian  has  had  several  offers  to  ap- 
pear at  a  local  theatre." 

"  The  original  humorist  and  comedian,  Burke, 
will  shortly  star  in  a  farce-comedy  from  the  pen 
of  a  well-known  Now  York  journalist." 

Finally  an  "  angel "  was  found  in  the  person 
of  a  very  young  man  whose  mother  had  re- 
cently died  and  left  him  three  or  four  thousand 
dollars.  The  poor  boy  was  talked  into  paying 
some  miserable  scribbler  a  thousand  dollars  for 
a  lot  of  rot  concocted  from  old  farces,  and  which 
any  stage  manager  would  have  thrown  together 
in  two  days  for  twenty-five  dollars.  The  "star" 
received  an  advance  of  five  hundred.  Mr.  Ike 
Rosenbud,  "ye  hustling  agent  and  press  worker" 


Wrecked  Geniuses.  175 

was  engaged  at  a  salary  of  seventy-five  dollars 
a  week,  receiving  two  weeks  in  advance.  (Mr. 
Rosenbud  had  formerly  been  a  circus  program- 
mer at  twelve  dollars  a  week).  Then  came 
printers  and  lithographers  —  there  were  ten 
highly  colored  lithographs  of  Burke  in  as 
many  different  attitudes.  In  one  he  held  a 
high  hat  in  his  left  hand  with  an  overcoat 
thrown  carelessly  over  his  arm,  while  his  right 
held  a  cane.  In  another  he  wore  the  cap  and 
bells  of  Touchstone,  his  hand  resting  on  an 
open  volume  of  Shakespeare.  (Mr.  Burke's 
acquaintance  with  Shakespeare  was  limited  to 
a  few  performances  of  the  second  grave  digger, 
which  he  doubled  with  Bernardo,  and  like 
characters  in  the  old  acting-  editions.  Aside 
from  these  he  had  probably  never  read  a  line 
of  Shakespeare  in  his  life).  A  third  repre- 
sented him  in  full  evening  dress,  posed  in 
heroic  attitudes  on  the  stage,  with  a  monstrous 
theatre  crowded  in  every  tier,  and  in  the  boxes 
faces  of  well-known  statesmen,  soldiers,  poets, 
politicians  and  club  men.  There  was  also  a 
full  sheet  lithograph  in  five  colors  of  Mr.  Ike 
Rosenbud,  with  a  small  medallion  of  the 
managerial  victim  in  the  lower  corner. 


176  Wrecked  Geniuses. 

Rehearsals  had   now  commenced   and    the 
various  "  artists"  had  bled  the  embryo  manager 
for  sums  varying  from  ten  to  a  hundred  dollars 
each.    Before  the  opening  date  had  arrived  the 
manager  had  spent  his  last  dollar,  and  mort- 
gaged   his  little    homestead    in   New  Jersey. 
Burke  kept  himself  half-full  day  and  night,  but 
continued  to  tell  funny  stories  to  the  "  gang," 
and    the   paragraphs   continued    to   circulate. 
Owing  to  circumstances  beyond  their  control,  the 
company  did  not  open  in  a  New  York  theatre, 
but  gave  their  first  performance  in  Elizabeth  or 
Trenton.     The  Associated  Press  dispatches  re- 
corded the  affair  in  all  of  the  New  York  papers. 
"  The  play  and  star  made  a  tremendous  success. 
The  house  was  not  large  but  was  very  enthusi- 
astic.    The  piece  was  rather  draggy  at  times, 
but  this  was  owing  to  incompetent  people,  who 
would  be  replaced  at  once,  when  with  a  little 
judicious  pruning  it  would  prove  a  laughing 
'cy clone/  "  etc.,  etc.      Yet,  somehow,  Friday  of 
the  first  week  found  Burke  and  his  companions 
back  in  New  York.      Then  followed  the  war  of 
cards  in  the  theatrical  papers :   "  Incompetent 
manager ;"  "drunken  agent ;"  "  printing  not  up 
in  time;"  "  press  not  properly  worked ;"  "Burke's 


Wrecked  Geniuses  177 

portraits  nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  the  agent's  in 
every  window;"  "wretched  support;"  "will 
re-organize  under  able  management;"  "play 
to  be  extensively  re-written  by  Col.  Mulligan 
Bilkes,"  etc.,  etc.  Meantime  the  poor  managerial 
victim  having  had  his  experience,  and  being 
of  the  right  sort,  took  off  his  coat,  buckled 
down  to  work  and  got  even.  Otherwise  he 
would  have  become  a  sot,  a  criminal,  or  a 
suicide. 

Two  or  three  responsible  managers  offered 
Burke  a  good  salary  and  a  better  position  than 
he  had  ever  held  or  ever  could  have  held  on  his 
merits,  but  no — he  had  been  a  "star"  and  could 
not  afford  to  sacrifice  his  position.  Another 
"  angel "  was  found  who  took  out  the  reorgan- 
ized company  with  a  result  similar  to  his  pre- 
decessor's. Tli en  Burke,  after  working  the  lunch 
routes  for  a  few  weeks  and  borrowing  odd  half 
dollars  from  the  plain,  every-day  actors,  ac- 
cepted an  engagement  in  a  responsible  com- 
pany with  the  understanding  that  he  was  to 
have  his  lithograph  in  the  windows  and  his 
name  starred  in  the  cast. 

The  manager  advanced  money  to  get  him 
a  decent  suit  of  clothes  and  settled  his  board 


178  Wrecked   Oeniuses. 

bill.  He  had  never  seen  him  act,  but  he 
had  heard  him  tell  some  funny  stories  and  read 
so  much  about  him  that  he  knew  he  must  be 
great.  But  somehow  Burke  didn't  catch  on. 
The  business  manager  wired  the  manager  ask- 
ing where  he  dug  it  up.  On  the  third  night 
Burke  was  too  "  indisposed  "  to  appear,  necessi- 
tating a  substitute  at  short  notice.  The  few  in 
the  audience  who  discovered  the  change  thought 
it  a  decided  improvement  to  the  cast,  but  still 
Burke's  "eccentricity  "  added  to  his  reputation 
as  a  genius.  Then  the  manager  went  on  to 
Rochester  to  see  the  show.  His  experienced 
eye  took  the  measure  of  the  man  in  his  first 
scene. 

"  How  shall  we  get  rid  of  him?"  asked  the 
manager. 

11  Leave  that  to  me,"  said  the  business  man- 
ager. "  I'll  bill  him  very  heavy,  with  big  puffs 
in  the  country  papers,  and  by  the  time  he  gets 
two  weeks7  salary  his  head  will  begin  to  swell. 
Then  I'll  stop  using  his  lithographs  and  put 
his  name  in  small  type  like  the  rest,  and  he 
won't  be  seen.  Then  he  will  kick  and  wire 
you,  back-capping  me  for  not  billing  him.  Then 
you  wire  him  that  I  am  the  manager,  and  he 


Wrecked  Geniuses.  179 

must  fix  it  with  me  Then  he  will  resign — 
see?" 

The  experiment  worked  exactly  as  the  shrewd 
business  manager  had  prophesied.  Then  came 
a  few  more  cards  in  the  theatrical  papers. 

Burke  was  back  in  his  old  haunts  telling  his 
chestnuts,  and  the  paragraphs  were  again  work- 
ing his  next  starring  tour.  Burke  now  began 
to  affect  the  cynic  and  sneer  at  the  "variety 
hams,"  "one-part  actors,"  etc.  He  would  also 
ask,  "where  did  he  come  from  ?"  "I  never  heard 
of  him  !"  "  I'd  like  to  see  him  in  a  stock  com- 
pany doing  the  line  of  work  I  did."  "Actor  ? 
Actor  nothing !  he  is  simply  a  specialty  per- 
former— they  don't  want  actors  now"  Burke 
had  now  entered  upon  his  career  as  a  Wrecked 
Genius.  He  went  out  with  several  "snaps," 
sometimes  holding  out  for  two  weeks,  but  oftener 
for  two  nights.  With  each  return  to  the  metrop- 
olis his  cynicism  became  emphasized,  his  coat 
shinier  and  his  nose  became  redder.  He  also 
became  noticeable  by  that  trademark  of  all 
Wrecked  Geniuses,  soiled  linen. 


RUNNING  CONVERSATIONS. 


is  something  radically  wrong 
with  our  humane  societies,"  said  the 
fat  comedian,  "  when  a  chicken  that 
has  reached  this  age  is  not  safe  from  the  rude 
clutch  of  the  lunch  counter  dyspepsia  propa- 
gator. Two  weeks  ago  we  made  this  run,  and 
I  spent  the  entire  ten  minutes  over  that  drum- 
stick. The  girl  took  my  half  dollar  like  a  little 
man,  however,  and  just  as  we  pulled  out  I  saw 
her  dump  the  unscarred  drumstick  on  a  clean 
plate  and  shove  it  over  to  a  drummer,  who  ran 
in  from  the  East-bound  train.  The  latter  evi- 
dently had  no  better  success  with  it  than  my- 
self, as  I  see  it  is  still  on  deck." 

"  Sixty-five  cents,  please,"  said  the  young 
woman  with  watery  eyes  and  red  hair. 

"What  for?" 

"Chicken,  coffee  and  bisquit." 

"  But  I  didn't  eat  any  chicken." 

"  Well,  it  was  there  in  front  of  you,  wasn't  it?" 


Running  Conversations.  181 

"  Yes,  and  so  was  the  water-cooler  and  show 
case,  but  I  didn't  eat  'em,  did  I?  Besides  I 
paid  you  for  that  piece  of  chicken  when  I  was 
here  two  weeks  ago,  and  I  dare  say  you've  been 
getting  fifty  cents  for  it  an  average  of  three 
times  a  day  ever  since.  Some  people  are  never 
satisfied." 

"  How  do  you  know  it's  the  same  one  ?  " 
"  Because  I  drove  a  tooth-pick  into  it  with  my 
umbrella  handle,  and  there  it  is — see  it?  " 


"  ALL  out  for  Schenectady !  "  yelled  the  brake- 
man. 

"Has  the  Skeneatelas  accomodation  gone 
yet?  "  asked  the  fat  comedian. 

"  Yes,  ten  minutes  ago." 

"  I  thought  this  train  connected?" 

i:  So  it  does,  some  days." 

•<  Well,  why  didn't  the  trains  connect  to-day?' 

"  What's  that  about  Schenectady  ?  '' 

"  Who  said  anything  about  Schenectady  ?  " 

"  You  did." 

«  No,  I  didn't." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  say  ?  " 


182  Running  Conversations. 

"  I  simply  asked  an  explanation  of  the  failure 
of  the  trains  to  connect  to-day/* 

"There  ain't  no  failure  of  the  train  to  Schen- 
ectady.  This  is  the  train  and  we're  forty 
minutes  late — all  out  for  Schenectady." 

"  Did  you  say  this  was  Schenectady  ?  " 

"  Yes — didn't  you  hear  me?" 

"  I  thought  I  heard  something  like  it.  Hold 
on  I  don't  pull  the  bell." 

"  What  1     Do  you  get  off  here  ?  " 

"No;  I  just  want  to  change  my  watch  to 
Central  time." 


"  WOOSTER  !  All  out  for  Wooster  I "  cried  the 
brakeman. 

"What  town  did  you  say  this  was?"  asked 
the  fat  comedian. 

"  Wooster." 

"I  don't  see  any  such  name  on  this  time- 
table." 

"  Then  you  had  better  learn  to  read.  What 
do  you  call  that  right  there?" 

"I  call  that  W-0-R-C-E-S-T-E-R,  and  I'd  like 
to  know  how  you  make  Wooster  out  of  it." 

"  Maybe  you'd  better  get  off  here  and  teach 
'em  how  to  pronounce  their  own  name." 


Running  Conversations.  183 

41  I'll  write  to  'em  about  it.  What  time  are 
we  due  in  Rooster  ?  " 

"  Due  where  ?  " 

"  In  Rooster." 

"  There  ain't  no  such  town  on  the  road/' 

"Then  what  do  you  call  this— R-O-C-H- 
E-S-T-E-R?" 

"  I  call  that  Rochester." 

"Why  don't  you  call  it  Rooster?" 


"Do  WE  make  a  close  connection  at  Sala- 
manca?" asked  the  fat  comedian. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so,"  said  the  brakeman. 

"  Why  don't  you  know  ?  "  asked  the  fat  man. 

"  I  do  know,  only  I  forget.  Time  changes  at 
Salamanca  and  I  always  get  mixed  on  tke  Cen- 
tral and  Eastern  time." 

"  What  time  do  we  run  on  ?  " 

"  Central." 

"  And  what  time  does  the  R.  &  E.  run  on  ?  " 

"  Eastern,  I  think — no ;  Central,  I  guess,  or 
else — damifino." 

"  Well,  I  see  we  arrive  in  Salamanca  at  8:37 
and  leave  at  8:15  for  Corry,  so  we  must  lay  there 
all  night." 


184  Running  Conversations. 

11  Lay  where  all  night — in  Corry  ?" 

"  No  ;  in  Salamanca." 

"What  do  you  want  to  lie  in  Salamanca  all 
night  for?" 

"I  don't  want  to;  that's  what  I'm  saying. 
I'm  due  in  Erie  at  10:45." 

"Then  you  change  at  Salamanca  and  Corry." 

"  I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do." 

"Then  what  did  you  ask  me  for?" 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  about  changes.  I  asked 
about  connections." 

"Well,  I  told  you,  didn't  I?  Salamanca/ 
Ten  minutes  for  refreshments !  " 


FAT  comedian  (at  lunch  counter,  to  hard- 
looking  citizen  with  dirty  hands,  in  attendance): 
"  What  kind  of  pie  you  got  ?  " 

"  Apple  and  mince." 

"Make  the  mince-meat  yourself?" 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"  Then  gimme  some.'? 

Brakeman  to  fat  comedian :  "  I  was  right 
about  that ;  time  changes  here  and  you  lay 
over  fifty  minutes." 

"Then  what  in  blazes  made  you  say  ten 
minutes  for  refreshments." 


Running  Conversations.  185 

"  You  don't  want  fifty  minutes  to  eat  a  piece 
of  pie,  do  you  ?  " 

<4  That  depends  on  the  pie.  I  can  eat  Sala- 
manca pie  in  ten  minutes,  but  I  need  the  other 
forty  for  thought ;  and  then  again  it  gives  me 
time  to  wire  ahead  to  Erie  whether  they  are  to 
engage  a  doctor  or  notify  the  coroner." 

"All  aboard  for  Bradford." 


"  EXCUSE  me  for  a  minute,"  said  the  brake- 
man,  with  a  suddenness  that  wakened  the  fat 
comedian  from  a  comfortable  nap ;  "  but  we're 
just  making  the  Wild  Gulch  trestle,  and  I  want 
to  stand  on  the  platfown  until  we  are  safely 
across."  The  fat  comedian  jumped  nimbly 
into  the  isle  and  held  onto  a  seat  until  the  train 
reached  terra  firma.  "  Do  you  know,"  continued 
the  brakeman,  returning  and  seating  himself 
nervously,  "whenever  the  train  touches  that 
trestle,  my  blood  seems  to  stop  circulating,  my 
skin  gets  clammy  and  my  back  seems  to  kinder 
open  and  shut  like." 

"  Is  it  considered  unsafe  ?"  asked  the  come- 
dian anxiously. 

"  No,  not  that  exactly,  but  I  had  a  terrible 
adventure  on  that  trestle  about  a  year  ago." 


186  Running  Conversations. 

11  What  kind  of  an  adventure?" 

"  Did'nt  you  read  about  it  in  the  papers?" 

"  I  expect  I  did,  I  read  everything,  but  I 
don't  just  recall  this  one.  What  was  the  nature 
of  it?" 

"It  was  headed  'Remarkable  Presence  of 
Mind  of  a  Brakeman.'  It  was  in  all  the  papers 
and  the  Police  Gazette  had  a  full-page  picture 
of  it." 

"  Guess  I  must  have  missed  it,"  said  the  come- 
dian, "got  a  copy  of  one  of  the  papers?  " 

"No,  I  only  bought  one  copy.  I  sent  that  to 
the  step-mother  of  a  girl  I  was  spooney  on,  to 
make  an  impression,  and  before  I  could  get 
another  copy,  they  were  all  bought  up." 

"To  bad,"  said  the  comedian.  "But  can't 
you  tell  me  about  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  can,  but  my  nervous  system  gets  all 
upset  whenever  1  get  to  thinking  about  it." 

"  Take  a  mouthful  of  tonic  before  you  com- 
mence," said  the  fat  comedian,  reaching  for  his 
overcoat.  The  brakeman  disappeared  between 
the  seats  for  a  moment,  and  then  rose  to  the 
surface  with  the  tears  streaming  from  his  eyes. 

"  Great  Jonah,"  he  gasped,  "  where  did  you 
get  that?" 


Running  Conversations.  187 

"  Brought  it  from  New  York  with  me.  How 
is  it  ?  " 

"Immense,"  said  the  brakeman,  gasping 
wildly. 

"  Don't  get  that  sort  of  stuff  very  often,  do 
you  ?"  asked  the  comedian. 

"  Not  very,"  said  the  brakeman,  reaching  for 
the  water  cooler,  as  the  comedian  replaced  his 
bottle  of  liver  regulator  in  his  overcoat  pocket. 

"  But  about  your  terrible  adventure  ?" 

"  O  yes.  Well  you  see,  it  was  this  way.  It  was 
a  blizzard  night  in  February.  I  never  ex- 
perienced anything  like  it.  Several  trains  in 
Kansas  were  blown  completely  off  the  track. 
I  was  braking  on  a  freight  then,  and  we  reached 
that  trestle  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
I  had  crawled  into  the  caboose  to  thaw  the 
icicles  off  my  hair  and  nose,  when  the  engineer 
sounded  down  brakes.  1  jumped  on  top  of  Jhe 
rear  car  and  we  got  her  stopped  just  before  the 
engine  touched  the  trestle.  I  ran  along  the 
tops  of  the  cars  up  t©  the  locomotive.  There 
had  been  a  heavy  storm  and  the  gulch  was 
terribly  swollen,  with  a  raging  torrent  of  water 
and  ice,  and  the  engineer  stopped  before  going 
onto  the  trestle,  as  a  sort  of  precaution.  Just  as 


188  Running  Conversations. 

I  reached  the  front  car  he  sounded  off  brakes, 
and  threw  her  wide  open  and  started  over  the 
trestle  wild.  The  train  was  a  corker — thirty-eight 
box  and  nine  platform  cars.  I  started  to  run  back 
as  the  train  moved  forward.  It  was  a  sharp 
down-giade  onto  the  trestle,  and  in  about  a 
minute  she  was  flying.  The  tops  of  the  cars 
were  covered  with  ice,  and  the  wind  and  sleet 
was  blowing  about  sixty  miles  an  hour  I 
slipped  and  fell  two  or  three  times,  but  caught 
myself  each  time ;  once  I  fell  between  the  cars 
head  first,  but  caught  the  ladder  with  my  toes 
and  crawled  back  again.  That  was  where  my 
old  circus  experience  came  in  handy,  I  had  just 
reached  about  the  middle  of  the  train  when  a 
blast  of  wind  and  sleet  struck  me  as  though  it 
had  been  shot  out  of  a  cannon.  It  blew  me 
clean  off  the  train.  You  see  it  is  a  flat  trestle, 
witl\.  no  frame-work  above  the  track  to  catch 
me,  and  I  started  for  the  torrent  below.  Now 
here  is  where  the  presence  of  mind  comes  in  : 
I  had  got  about  half  way  to  the  water,  going 
down  head  first ;  I  could  see  the  broken  ice  and 
drift-wood  tearing  and  roaring  under  the 
bridge.  A  sense  of  the  awful  death  before  me 
suddenly  dawned  on  me,  and  so  gathering  all  my 


Running  Conversations.  189 

strength  I  turned  and  jumped  back  just  in 
time  to  catch  the  rear  platform  of  the 
caboose." 

"Chestnuts!  roasted  chestnuts!"  called  the 
candy  butcher,  while  a  well  developed  snore 
from  the  big  overcoat  indicated  that  the  fat 

comedian  was  sleeping  sweetly. 

*  * 

* 

"Too  bad,  too  bad,  too  bad!"  said  the  fat 
comedian,  a  half  hour  later,  as  he  dropped  the 
newspaper  on  his  knee,  and  put  his  hand  over 
his  eye  as  though  to  shut  out  a  painful  vision. 

"  What's  too  bad?"  asked  the  brakemati, 
slipping  into  the  vacant  seat. 

"  Those  terrible  storms  in  Dakota.  A  man 
actually  perished  between  his  own  barn  and 
hen  coop,  and  another  lost  between  the  house 
and  well,  and  his  frozen  body  found  within 
twenty  yards  of  his  own  door.  But  that  school 
teacher  was  a  brick  who  tied  the  little  children 
together  with  their  apron  strings  and  got  them 
all  safely  sheltered,  though  badly  frozen  her- 
self. 1  suppose,"  said  the  comedian,  thought- 
fully, "  no  person  can  possibly  realize  the  ter- 
rors of  a  northern  snow  storm  from  a  mere  cold 
word  painting." 


190  Running  Conversations. 

"Ever  seen  one  yourself?"  asked  the  brake- 
man. 

"  What !  me  ?     Well  I  should  think  so," 

"In  Dakota?" 

tv  No,  in  Montana,  way  back  in  the  sixties.  Be- 
fore the  days  of  railroads,  when  we  traveled  in 
mud  wagons  and  Concord  coaches  instead  of 
palace  cars.  I  was  a  member  of  Jack  Lang- 
rishe's  Dramatic  Company  then.  One  crisp 
morning  in  January,  1867,  we  started  in  an  old 
mountain  coach,  drawn  by  six  bronchos.  We 
left  Helena  just  at  sunrise  for  Central  City. 
There  were  five  ladies  and  four  gentlemen  of 
the  company  inside  the  coach,  and  four  more 
of  us — the  youngest  and  toughest — on  top.  It 
was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  we  started  out  as 
jolly  as  a  party  of  picknickers.  About  noon 
the  sun  became  obscured  and  scattering  snow- 
flakes  began  to  fall.  An  hour  later  we  were  in 
the  midst  of  a  fully  developed  snow  storm.  We 
were  now  nearing  the  divide,  and  the  cold  be- 
came intense.  The  snow  began  to  drift 
heavily,  and  as  we  approached  the  old 
Googer  grade  the  air  was  so  thick  that  we 
couldn't  see  the  leaders.  Old  Bill  Yokum, 
a  famous  driver  in  those  days,  had  us  in 


Running  Conversations.  191 

charge,  and  "Sandy"  McGuire,  who  had  prob- 
ably killed  more  ruffians,  greasers  and  In- 
dians than  he  could  count,  was  seated  beside 
him  with  his  sa wed-off  shot  gun,  as  guard.  As 
we  rounded  a  sharp  angle  in  the  grade  we 
struck  a  drift  that  took  the  leaders  in  to  their 
shoulder  blades  and  brought  the  old  coach  up 
short,  with  snow  up  to  the  windows.  "Sandy  " 
McGuire  ordered  all  hands  on  top  of  the  coach 
to  climb  down,  and  then  ordered  the  men 
folks  inside  to  crawl  out,  and  informed  us  that 
we  must  all  foot  it  to  the  top  of  the  grade.  With 
the  coach  thus  lightened,  the  bronchos  again 
got  under  way,  and  the  children  of  Thespis 
trudged  along  behind,  blinded  by  the  wind  and 
drifting  snow.  There  were  nine  of  us  all  told, 
headed  by  "  Sandy,"  and  we  mechanically  fell 
into  Indian  file,  I,  scarcely  knowing  it,  bringing 
up  the  rear.  It  was  impossible  to  see  five  feet 
ahead,  so  we  kept  calling  out  to  each  other  and 
answering  back,  down  the  line.  I  have  always 
been  fat  and  my  legs  are  very  short,  and  grad- 
ually I  began  to  drop  behind;  1  couldn't  see 
any  one,  but  I  knew  I  was  losing  ground  by  the 
sound  of  the  voices  in  front  growing  fainter 
with  each  call.  Presently  they  ceased  entirely 


392  Running  Conversations. 

and  then  a  terrible  fear  seized  me.  I  tried  to 
call  with  greater  strength,  and  realized  that  I 
could  not  make  a  sound.  Terror  had  robbed 
me  of  the  power  of  speech.  I  was  unable  to 
move.  Presently  I  began  to  feel  numb  and 
sleepy,  and  all  pain  and  fatigue  left  me,  but  I 
had  just  sense  enough  left  to  remember  hearing 
old  prospectors  tell  that  these  were  the  final 
symptoms  when  people  are  freezing  to  death. 
Then  I  remembered  my  pocket  flask,  and 
forcing  my  hand  through  the  snow  into  my 
pocket  I  brought  it  forth  and  drained  it  —  a 
full  pint  of  tanglefoot.  The  whisky  seemed  for 
a  moment  to  give  me  superhuman  strength, 
and  I  darted  forward  like  a  wild  man;  but  I 
had  completely  lost  my  hearings,  and  in  the 
blinding  snow,  with  darkness  just  setting  in,  I 
plunged  directly  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  along 
which  the  road  ran." 

"  Great  Heaven !  "  cried  the  brakeman,  wip- 
ing the  perspiration  from  his  forehead  with  his 
leather  glove,  " that  was  awful!  How  far  did 
you  fall  ?  " 

"  Wait  and  see.  I  thought  I  would  never 
stop.  You  see  this  was  the  north  side  of 
the  mountain  ;  the  peaks  above  had  protected 


Running  Conversations.  193 

it  entirely  from  the  snow  then  drifting,  but  the 
old  bed  of  snow  that  had  been  there  for  years 
was  frozen  as  solid  as  a  mountain  of  ice,  After 
falling  through  the  loose  drift  on  the  edge  of 
the  cliff,  I  struck  this  solid  sheet  of  ice  and 
commenced  rolling  down  the  mountain  side. 
You  see  we  were  above  timber  line  and  there 
was'nt  as  much  as  a  brush  to  grab  at." 

"Heavens!"  gasped  the  brakeman,  "where 
was  the  rest  of  'em  ?" 

"Wait  I  wait  I  Down!  down!  down  T  went, 
gathering  velocity  as  I  sped.  I  could  see  the 
jagged  rocks  and  tops  of  the  scrub  pines  pro- 
truding through  the  mountain  of  ice  below  me 
at  the  timber  line.  Suddenly  I  lost  concious- 
ness,  then  I  struck  something  and  stopped .  I  sat 
bolt  upright ;  my  hair,  which  had  turned  snow 
white,  was  standing  like  a  barbed  wire  fence  on 
my  head,  I  could  hear  a  wild  confused  sound 
of  bells  and  bugles.  In  one  second  I  lived  over 
my  twenty-two  years,  and  all  of  my  transgres- 
sions stood  out  like  sign  boards  by  the  way. 
Aha !  I  thought,  'tis  judgment  day,  and  Gabriel's 
trumpet  is  not  a  myth.  Then  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  be  tumbling  about  my  ears,  I  jumped 
to  my  feet  and  tried  to  yell,  then  the  bell  came 


194  Running  Conversations. 

again  and  then  the  trumpet,  and  then  the  famil- 
liar  voice  of  the  red-headed  chambermaid,  who 
made  life  a  burden  and  sleep  a  delusion  by 
singing  "Just  before  the  battle,  mother,"  just 
before  daylight  every  morning,  assaulted  my 
door  with  her  number  six  foot,  and  my  ear  with 
her  number  twelve  voice,  thus-wise :  "  Hello ! 
there  I  you  fatty !  Git  out  o'  that,  or  ye'll  git 
no  brickfast.  The  coach  starts  for  Cintral  City 
in  foive  minutes." 

"  The  funniest  thing  about  that  story,"  said 
the  brakeman,  as  he  moved  toward  the  coal 
box,  "is  the  way  you  got  that  pint  of  tangle- 
foot mixed  up  with  the  dream  part  of  it." 


FLOTSAM  ftND  JETSflM. 


THE    DESCENT   OF   THE   MANTLE. 

OU  are  right,  my  son ;  it  was  a  great 
r  cy  mistake  for  Forrest  and  McCullough 
^  to  leave  their  mantles  floating  aroun  d 
loose-like.  It's  odd,  too,  that  their  executors 
should  have  »been  so  remiss  as  to  make  no  suit- 
able provision  for  the  proper  descent  of  the 
same.  The  woods  are  fall  of  mantle-grabbers, 
and  between  the  desperate  clutches  of  thie  army 
of  grabbers  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  poor  man- 
tle will  become  .unrecognizable.  You  are  right 
— it  is  odd  that  it  has  not  occurred  to  some  fel- 
low to  get  a  mantle  of  his  own  and  just  vary 
the  pattern  a  little.  It  has  always  seemed  to 
me  that  the  stupid  public  cares  very  little  about 
mantles,  anyway.  It  paid  little  attention  to 
McCullough'e  struggle  with  the  mantle  until 
Forrest  had  been  dead  so  long  that  the  great 
majority  of  theatre-goers  had  never  seen  him, 
or,  having  seen,  had  forgotten  just  how  the  old 
man's  mantle  did  hang,  anyhow.  "  Do  many 


196  Flotsam  and  Jetsam. 

people  go  to  see  Hamlet  now  ?  "  No,  my  son ; 
very  few.  But  thousands  flock  to  see  Booth. 
That's  the  difference  That's  the  point  that 
mantle-grabbers  seem  to  lose  sight  of  or  ignore, 
until  the  empty  chairs  and  emptier  purses  set 
them  to  thinking. 

Yes,  indeed,  my  son,  it  is  one  thing  to  be  a 
popular  leading  actor,  and  quite  another  thing 
to  be  a  profitable  star.  This  is  a  point  that  it 
takes  many  of  us  years  to  masticate.  Personal 
popularity  is  good  material  to  start  with ;  then 
offer  the  public  the  kind  of  goods  they  want, 
and,  knowing  you  to  be  a  trustworthy  salesman, 
they  will  buy.  But  make  up  your  mind,  to  be- 
gin with,  that  they  are  not  hankering  after  any 
new  brands  of  fair  to  middling  Othellos  or 
Richelieus — at  least'  not  just  now. 

FORKESTONIAN   HUMOR. 

Yes,  indeed,  my  son,  the  great  tragedian  had 
a  wonderful  sense  of  grim  humor.  I  was  play- 
ing with  the  "old  man"  in  Pittsburg  in  71  in 
Jack  Cade.  The  Lord  Say  of  the  cast  was  a 
man  with  a  poetic  name  and  a  pronounced 
Irish  mug,  and  a  no  less  pronounced  brogue. 
His  dressing  of  the  part  was  a  nightmare  of 


Flotsam,  and,  Jetsam.  197 

gaudy  tints;  no  color  escaped  him.  The  whole 
was  surmounted  by  a  ruff,  with  a  small  cap 
and  a  bunch  of  straggling  cocks-feathers.  Al- 
together he  was  about  as  unlike  the  sombre 
Lord  Say  as  he  could  well  be.  In  the  closing 
scene  of  the  play,  instead  of  armor  he  still  clung 
to  his  rainbow-hued  raiment.  As  Lord  Clifford 
I  had  been  decently  killed  in  the  third  act,  and 
I  was  haunting  the  entrances  listening  to  the 
"old  man's"  reading.  (At  that  time  it  was 
painful  to  see  him  in  Cade).  Newt  Gotthold  was 
the  Friar  Lacy,  and  as  he  stood  beside  Forrest 
at  the  back  of  the  stage,  while  the  pink  and  red 
Say  was  wildly  gesticulating  in  the  right  cor- 
ner, I  heard  the  great  actor  growl  in  gutterals 
to  Gotthold : 

"Iv'e  been  trying  all  night  to  think  what 
that  d — d  creature  looks  like  ;  I've  just  got  it." 

"  What  is  it? "   queried  Gotthold. 

"Punch's  dog,"  growled  Forrest. 

And  he  did.  Look  at  the  title  page  of  Punch, 
and  you  will  appreciate  the  joke. 

DEGENERACY  (?)  OF   THE   STAGE. 

No,  my  son,  I  am  not  one  of  the  croakers 
about  the  "degeneracy"  of  the  stage.  There  is 


198  Flotsam  and  Jetsam. 

a  good  deal  of  unadulterated  rot  in  the  "palmy 
day"  chestnut.  At  the  present  day  actors  are 
better  paid  and  plays  are  better  acted  and  better 
produced  than  at  any  time  during  my  two  de- 
cades of  professional  life.  More  than  that,  the 
actor  is  constantly  progressing  in  every  direc- 
tion. The  man  who  could  night  after  night 
disappoint  and  insult  the  public,  and  still  re- 
tain favor,  is  known  no  more  among  us. 
The  "wrecked  genius" — that  is,  the  man  who 
never  amounted  to  anything  until  he  became 
notorious  through  drunkenness — was  one  of 
the  conspicuous  figures  of  the  "palmy  days," 
now  happily  almost  extinct.  Still,  my  son,  I 
do  consider  that  in  certain  characters,  notably 
Lear,  Richelieu  and  Virginius,  Edwin  Forrest, 
in  his  old  age,  was  so  much  greater  than  any 
other  actor  I  have  ever  seen,  that  there  is  ab- 
solutely no  plane  of  comparison  ;  while  to  the 
thoughtful  actor  and  student  of  Shakespeare 
his  reading  of  Hamlet  was  a  revelation.  But 
you  needed  to  close  your  eyes.  The  grand  old 
man  became  a  student  at  fifty,  and  died  with 
the  pages  of  the  Master  open  before  him. 


Flotsam  and  Jetsam.  199 

BLACKSTONE   AND   THESPIS 

Yes,  my  son,  that  modest  little  man,  with  an 
jxpansive  forehead,  who  hailed  us  from  his 
family  carriage  on  the  New  Orleans  shell-road 
the  other  day,  was  Charles  F.  Buck,  an  eminent 
and  successful  lawyer  of  that  city,  and  that 
handsome  lady  at  his  side  was  Mrs.  Buck,  and 
that  group  of  merry  little  ones  were  all  little 
Bucks.  And  that  carries  me  back  to  Septem- 
ber, 1867,  and  Leavenworth,  Kas.,  when  and 
where  Charley  Buck  and  myself  began  to  learn 
the  trade  of  acting.  It  was  not  a  bad  company. 
Charley  and  I  were  the  utility.  Susan  Denin, 
rest  her  soul !  was  the  manageress.  And  here, 
my  son,  let  me  pause  to  pay  the  poor  tribute  of 
a  tear  to  the  cherished  memory  of  one  of  the 
noblest  souls,  one  of  the  greatest  actresses  and 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  unfortunate 
women  of  our  generation.  If,  on  the  other  side, 
there  are  crowns  for  those  whose  lives  on  this 
were  periods  of  martyrdom  and  self-sacrifice, 
then  poor  Susan  Benin's  halo  rivals  the  spheres 
in  splendor. 

Those  were  the  "  palmy  days,"  my  boy.  My 
salary  was  (to  be)  fifteen  dollars  f  week  ;  Buck's 
tlie  same.  We  got  it  one  week.  The  next 


200  Flotsam  and  Jetsam. 

week  we  got  a  reduction;  the  next  we  got  a 
promise,  and  the  next  we  got  turned  out  of  the 
boarding-house.  Then  poor  Mme.  Scheller 
came  on  for  a  star  engagement.  By  some  mys- 
terious process  we  contrived  to  get  down  to 
Kansas  City,  then  a  little  clump  of  houses  clus- 
tered around  the  old  Market  Square,  We 
played  in  Frank's  Hall,  an  old  up-stairs  rookery, 
seating  about  three  hundred  people.  From 
here  we  managed  to  make  St.  Joe,  and  here  it 
was,  in  the  old  Odd  Fellows'  Hall,  with  an  iron 
post  running  up  through  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
(how the  low  comedians  used  to  love  that  post!) 
that  the  great  "  Nobles-Buck  Tragic  Alliance  " 
was  formed.  We  had  been  watching  Chaplin 
and  Tannehill  wrestling  with  Pizarro,  Macbeth, 
Melnotte,  etc.,  and  we  knew  that  all  we  wanted 
was  a  chance  to  show  the  public  how  much 
greater  we  were  than  either  of  them.  The  op- 
portunity came  sooner  than  we  anticipated.  I 
think  we  wrestled  with  Fate  for  about  three 
weeks  in  St.  Joe.  The  time  is  impressed  upon 
my  mind  by  a  little  incident.  Buck  and  my- 
self, preparing  for  our  tour,  used  to  wander 
along  the  old  steamboat  wharf,  spouting  scenes 
from  Othello  and  The  Wife.  It  was  while 


Flotsam  and  Jetsam.  201 

engaged  in  this  occupation  that  we  one  night 
discovered  the  principals  of  our  company  quietly 
stealing  aboard  a  steamer.  In  plain  English, 
the  manager,  star  and  principals  skipped  be- 
tween two  days,  leaving  numerous  creditors  to 
mourn  their  untimely  departure.  Buck  and 
myself  being  only  the  "  utility/'  were  not  taken 
into  consideration;  our  places  could  be  easily 
filled  by  pick-ups  in  Omaha,  to  which  point  the 
midnight  decampers  were  bound.  The  next 
morning  found  the  embryo  tragedians  wrecked. 
Then  the  landlady  told  us  that  we  owed  eighteen 
dollars  each  for  board,  at  six  dollars  a  week,  and 
that's  how  I  know  just  how  long  we  were  in 
St.  Joe. 

Genius  is  not  easily  crushed  at  twenty,  and 
so  we  organized  a  benefit.  We  were  perfectly 
confident  that  the  humble  positions  we  had  oc- 
cupied in  the  company  had  not  obscured  from 
a  discerning  public  the  fact  that  we  were  really 
the  magnates  of  the  organization.  Besides,  I 
had  recently  had  several  low  comedy  parts  in 
the  farces,  and  had  extracted  several  full-grown 
laughs  from  the  entire  audience  (usually  about 
twenty-five  people,  trying  to  keep  the  big  stove 
warm  in  the  lower  end  of  the  hall).  A  little 


202  Flotsam  and  Jetsam. 

eloquence,  a  silver  watch  and  a  plain  gold  ring 
convinced  the  newspaper  man  that  our  personal 
popularity  was  sufficient  to  "  pack  the  house." 
So  he  gave  us  a  send-oft  and  five  hundred 
quarter-sheet  programmes.  The  hall  man 
agreed  to  take  his  chances  in  the  box-office,  and 
we  began  to  "  work  her  up." 

The  people  of  St.  Joe  who  stayed  away  from 
that  benefit  (and  I  may  say  in  parenthesis  that 
they  constituted  the  entire  population)  will 
never  know  what  they  missed.  But  we  were 
there,  and  the  programme  was  there,  with  our 
names  in  big  letters.  It  was  a  bitter  night,  way 
down  below  zero,  and  a  blinding  snow-storm, 
but  the  little  group  around  the  stove  in  the 
L.  U.  E.  of  the  hall  cheered  us  to  the  echo. 
Buck  was  crummy  on  his  lago ;  he  had  played 
it  with  the  amateurs  in  New  Orleans.  I  had 
never  done  Othello,  but  I  had  seen  three  or  four 
leading  heavy  men  straggle  with  him,  and  I 
was  confident  that  I  couldn't  do  anything  worse. 
And  so  we  howled  through  the  great  jealousy 
scene. 

Buck  punched  the  animal  and  I  did  the 
howling  Of  course,  we  howled  ourselves  hoarse 
in  two  minutes,  and  reduced  the  rest  of  the 


Flotsam  and  Jetsam,  203 

scene  to  facial  contortions.  Then  Buck  rung 
in  Collins'  "Ode  to  the  Passions."  Then  I  gave 
'em  "Shamus  O'Brien."  (My  first  trial  of  it). 
Buck  sang  a  ballad  without  music;  I  sang  a 
topical  song,  slathering  our  late  absconding 
etars  and  managers,  of  course.  Then  we  gave 
them  Box  and  Cox,  minus  Mrs.  Bouncer.  I 
don't  know  how  we  did  it,  but  we  did.  Eleven 
o'clock  came  and  then  the  hall  man  came  and 
said  he  had  taken  only  $16.75,  and  the  rent 
was  $20.00.  He  asked  what  we  were  going  to 
do  about  it,  and  we  asked  what  he  was  going  to 
do  about  it.  We  offered  to  divide  the  gross  and 
call  it  square,  but  that  didn't  seem  to  strike 
him  right,  so  he  kept  it  all. 

Yes,  my  son,  it  is  a  fact  that  just  thirteen 
years  after  that  I  hunted  up  that  good-hearted 
boarding-house  keeper  and  paid  him  that  bill, 
with  interest.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  ask  him. 
His  name  is  Bacon,  and  I  think  he  has  a  hotel 

bearing  his  name  in  St.  Joe  now. 

*  * 

And  so,  my  son,  you  see  the  player's  life  is 
not  all  tinsel  and  sunshine.  The  ideal  Prince 
of  Denmark  has  fought  poverty  and  worked 
the  lunch  route  in  his  day.  The  Prince  of 


204  Flotsam  and  Jetsam. 

Como  has  burned  midnight  oil  mastering  the 
description  of  his  palace  by  the  Lake  of  Como, 
and  darning  his  princely  silk  stockings.  The 
haughty  slayer  of  the  tyrant  Richard,  doffing 
his  spangled  armor,  has  hurried  from  Bosworth 
Field,  and  the  ringing  plaudits  of  a  crowded 
theatre,  to  a  half  furnished  garret,  where,  book 
in  hand  and  a  moistened  towel  on  his  head,  he 
has  labored  with  Macduff  till  gray  dawn  came 
peeping  through  his  narrow  window;  then  with 
scant  rest  and  scantier  breakfast,  he  is  off  to  re- 
hearsal; back  agaim  at  three,  a  cold  remnant 
for  dinner,  throe  hours  spent  in  "fixing  up 
togs"  and  cramming  the  lines,  and  off  to  the 
shop  again.  So  has  he  seen  the  days  go  into 
weeks,  the  weeks  into  months,  the  months  into 
years. 

This  is  no  ideal  picture,  my  son.  That 
haughty  queen,  surrounded  by  courtiers,  serfs 
and  flatterers,  has  gone  from  that  scene  of  tin- 
sel and  royalty  to  a  wretched  boarding-house, 
and  spent  the  night  fixing  up  the  "old  man's" 
toga,  and  changing  the  tinsel  and  puffing  on 
her  own  royal  gown,  which  she  must  wear  the 
next  night  for  a  maid-of-honor.  The  nimble 
Touchstone  and  the  jolly,  drunken  Toodles, 


Flotsam  and  Jetsam.  205 

with  the  laughter  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  has 
hurried  home  to  relieve  a  patient  wife  in  the 
care  of  a  dying  child.  We  are  human,  my 
son — human,  men  and  women,  like  the  rest  of 
the  world.  True,  there  are  those  among  us 
who  have  found  a  royal  road  to  fame  and  for- 
tune, but  their  number  is  limited.  They  are 
the  exceptions,  not  the  rule. 

But,  stock  or  star,  rich  or  poor,  every  old  actor 
is  proud  to  have  it  known  that  his  early  pro- 
fessional life  was  one  of  struggles,  hard  work 
and  constant  self-denial,  and  no  period  of  his 
career  is  so  dear  in  treasured  memories  as  the 
d  iy&  of  his  vagabond  novitiate. 


Great 

Rock  Island 
Route 


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Express  Trains  Daily 

Between  CHICAGO  and  DES  MOINES,  COUNCIL 
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Splendidly  Equipped  Express  Trains,  also 
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AL-BERT  LEA  ROTTTK 

The  favorite  to  all  the  Summer  Resorts  and  Hunt- 
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Save  TIME  and  MONET  and  see  that  your  TICKETS  BEAD  via  tbt 

CHICAGO,  ROCK  ISLAND  &  PACIFIC  RAILWAY. 

For  Tickets,  Maps,  Time  Tables,  Land  Folders,  copies  of 
Western  Trail,  or  information  in  regard  to  rates,  routes  and  con- 
nections West,  Southwest  and  Northwest  of  Chicago,  apply  to 
any  representative  of  this  road,  or  address, 

E.  ST.  JOHN,  I  rUIPAPfl  I  JOHN  SEBASTIAN, 
General  Manager.  I  UllluMUUi  |  Gen'l  Pass.  A  Ticket  Agt. 


OHIO  AND 
MISSISSIPPI 
RAILWAY. 

A  well  equipped  and  popular  line  connecting  the 
three  important  Commercial  Centers  —  St.  Louis, 
Louisville  and  Cincinnati. 

The  Ohio  &  Mississippi  was  the  first  railway  con- 
structed between  St.  Louis  and  Cincinnati,  and  its 
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provement in  physical  condition  and  traffic  resources. 

At  the  present  time  four  through  passenger  trains 
each  way  between  St.  Louis  and  Cincinnati  are  nec- 
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creasing volume  of  travel,  and  two  between  St.  Louis 
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The  time  of  its  fast  daylight  train  between  St. 
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ten  hours,  an  average  speed  which  is  not  surpassed  by 
any  railroad  in  the  United  States. 

Its  trains  all  enter  Union  Depots  in  Cincinnati, 
Louisville  and  St.  Louis,  conveniently  located  near 
the  centers  of  business.  Transfers  to  other  lines  are 
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Travelers  going  to  any  point  East,  West,  North  or 
South,  should  make  it  their  business  to  ask  for  tickets 
via  the  O.  &  M.  Railway. 

For  further  information  in  regard  to  the  route, 
apply  to  ticket  agents  of  connecting  lines  or  address 
the  undersigned. 

W,  B  SHATTUCK,  een'lPasi'rlgt. 

CINCINNATI,  O. 


THE  EAST  TENNESSEE, 
VIRGINIA  &  GEORGIA  BY. 

The  Great  Trunk  tine  of  the  South. 


The  Best  Line  for  Theatrical  Companies. 


-*- 


DOUBLE  DAILY  TRAINS  ON  ALL  LINES. 

TRIPLE  DAILY  TRAINS  ON  MANY, 

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NORFORK,  YA,  and  BAGERSTOWN,  ID,, 

•* — TO —          * 

MEMPHIS,  TENN.,  in  the  Southwest, 

MERIDIAN,  MISS,  and  MOBILE,  ALA.,  in  the  South, 

BRUNSWICK,  GA,  in  the  Southeast. 
— #— 

Before  making  your  arrangements  for  trans- 
portation, correspond  with  or  call  on  the  under- 
signed, 

General  Passenger  Agent, 

303  Broadway,  New  York, 

Or  KNOXVILLE,  TENN. 


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